THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 


[See  page  12 

" '  RUFFO — THAT'S  A  NICE  NAME.  IT  SOUNDS  STRONG  AND  BOLD  ' " 


By  ROBERT    HICHENS 


AUTHOR    OF 

"The   Call  of  the  Blood,"  "The  Garden 
of  Allah,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
CYRUS    CUNEO 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  Tork 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Harper  &  Biothers 


Copyright,  1907,  1908,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  resirvtd. 
Published  September,  1908. 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 


CHAPTER  I 

SOMEWHERE,  not  far  off  on  the  still  sea  that  held  the 
tiny  islet  in  a  warm  embrace,  a  boy's  voice  was  singing 
"Napoli  Bella." 

Vere  heard  the  song  as  she  sat  in  the  sun  with  her  face 
set  towards  Nisida  and  the  distant  peak  of  Ischia;  and 
instinctively  she  shifted  her  position,  and  turned  her 
head,  looking  towards  the  calm  and  untroubled  water 
that  stretched  between  her  and  Naples.  For  the  voice 
that  sang  of  the  beautiful  city  was  coming  towards  her 
from  the  beautiful  city,  hymning  the  siren  it  had  left 
perhaps  but  two  hours  ago. 

On  his  pedestal  set  upon  rock  San  Francesco  seemed 
to  be  attentive  to  the  voice.  He  stood  beyond  the 
sheltered  pool  of  the  sea  that  divided  the  islet  from  the 
mainland,  staring  across  at  Vere  as  if  he  envied  her;  he 
who  was  rooted  in  Italy  and  deprived  of  her  exquisite 
freedom.  His  beard  hung  down  to  his  waist,  his  cross 
protruded  over  his  left  shoulder,  and  his  robe  of  dusty 
grayish  brown  touched  his  feet,  which  had  never  wan- 
dered one  step  since  he  was  made,  and  set  there  to  keep 
watch  over  the  fishermen  who  come  to  sleep  under  the 
lee  of  the  island  by  night. 

Now  it  was  brilliant  daylight.  The  sun  shone  vividly 
over  the  Bay  of  Naples,  over  the  great  and  vital  city, 

3 

2041659 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

over  Vesuvius,  the  long  line  of  the  land  towards  Sorrento, 
over  Capri  with  its  shadowy  mountain,  and  Posilippo 
with  its  tree-guarded  villas.  And  in  the  sharp  radiance 
of  May  the  careless  voice  of  the  fisher-boy  sang  the 
familiar  song  that  Vere  had  always  known  and  seldom 
heeded. 

To-day,  why  she  did  not  know,  Vere  listened  to  it 
attentively.  Something  in  the  sound  of  the  voice 
caught  her  attention,  roused  within  her  a  sense  of  sym- 
pathy. 

Carelessness  and  happiness  make  a  swift  appeal  to 
young  hearts,  and  this  voice  was  careless,  and  sounded 
very  happy.  There  was  a  deliberate  gruffness  in  it,  a 
determination  to  be  manly,  which  proved  the  vocalist 
to  be  no  man.  Vere  knew  at  once  that  a  boy  was  sing- 
ing, and  she  felt  that  she  must  see  him. 

She  got  up,  went  into  the  little  garden  at  the  edge  of 
the  cliff,  and  looked  over  the  wall. 

There  was  a  boat  moving  slowly  towards  her,  not  very 
far  away.  In  it  were  three  figures,  all  stripped  for  diving, 
and  wearing  white  cotton  drawers.  Two  were  sitting 
on  the  gunwale  with  their  knees  drawn  up  nearly  to  their 
chins.  The  third  was  standing,  and  with  a  languid,  but 
strong  and  regular  movement,  was  propelling  the  boat 
forward  with  big-bladed  oars.  This  was  the  singer,  and 
as  the  boat  drew  nearer  Vere  could  see  that  he  had  the 
young,  lithe  form  of  a  boy. 

While  she  watched,  leaning  down  from  her  eyrie,  the 
.boat  and  the  song  stopped,  and  the  singer  let  go  his  oars 
and  turned  to  the  men  behind  him.  The  boat  had  reach- 
ed a  place  near  the  rocks  that  was  good  ground  for  frutti 
di  mare. 

Vere  had  often  seen  the  divers  in  the  Bay  of  Naples 
at  their  curious  toil.  Yet  it  never  ceased  to  interest 
her.  She  had  a  passion  for  the  sea,  and  for  all  things 
connected  with  it.  Now  she  leaned  a  little  lower  over 

4 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  wall,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  boat  and  its  occu- 
pants. 

Upon  the  water  she  saw  corks  floating,  and  presently 
one  of  the  men  swung  himself  round  and  sat  facing  the 
sea,  with  his  back  to  the  boat  and  his  bare  legs  dipping 
into  the  water.  The  boy  had  dropped  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  craft.  His  hands  were  busy  arranging , 
clothes,  or  tackle,  and  his  lusty  voice  again  rang  out  to 
the  glory  of  "Napoli,  bella  Napoli."  There  was  some- 
thing infectious  in  his  happy-go-lucky  light-heartedness. 
Vere  smiled  as  she  listened,  but  there  was  a  wistfulness  in 
her  heart.  At  that  moment  a  very  common  desire 
of  young  and  vigorous  girls  assailed  her — the  desire  to 
be  a  boy;  not  a  boy  born  of  rich  parents,  destined  to  the 
idle,  aimless  life  of  aristocratic  young  Neapolitans,  but  a 
brown,  badly  dressed,  or  scarcely  dressed  at  all  boy  of 
the  people. 

She  was  often  light-hearted,  careless.  But  was  she 
ever  as  light-hearted  and  careless  as  that  singing  boy? 
She  supposed  herself  to  be  free.  But  was  she,  could  she 
ever  be  at  liberty  as  he  was  ? 

The  man  who  had  been  dipping  his  feet  in  the  sea 
rested  one  hand  on  the  gunwale,  let  his  body  droop 
forward,  dropped  into  the  water,  paddled  for  a  moment, 
reached  one  of  the  floating  corks,  turned  over  head  down- 
wards, describing  a  circle  which  showed  his  chocolate- 
colored  back  arched,  kicked  up  his  feet  and  disappeared. 
The  second  man  lounged  lazily  from  the  boat  into  the  sea 
and  imitated  him.  The  boy  sat  still  and  went  on  singing. 
Vere  felt  disappointed.  Was  not  he  going  to  dive  too? 
She  wanted  him  to  dive.  If  she  were  that  boy  she  would 
go  in,  she  felt  sure  of  it,  before  the  men.  It  must  be 
lovely  to  sink  down  into  the  underworld  of  the  sea,  to 
rifle  from  the  rocks  their  fruit,  that  grew  thick  as  fruit  on 
the  trees.  But  the  boy — he  was  lazy,  good  for  nothing 
but  singing.  She  was  half  ashamed  of  him.  Whin> 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

sically,  and  laughing  to  herself  at  her  own  absurdity,  she 
lifted  her  two  hands,  brown  with  the  sun,  to  her  lips, 
and  cried  with  all  her  might: 

"Va  dentro,  pigro!     Va  dentro!" 

As  her  voice  died  away,  the  boy  stopped  singing, 
sprang  into  the  sea,  kicked  up  his  feet  and  disappeared. 

Vere  was  conscious  of  a  thrill  that  was  like  a  thrill  of 
triumph. 

"He  obeyed  me!"  she  thought. 

A  pleasant  feeling  of  power  came  to  her.  From  her 
eyrie  on  the  rock  she  was  directing  these  strange  sea 
doings.  She  was  ruling  over  the  men  of  the  sea. 

The  empty  boat  swayed  softly  on  the  water,  but  its 
three  former  occupants  were  all  hidden  by  the  sea.  It 
seemed  as  if  they  would  never  come  up  again.  Vere 
began  to  hold  her  breath  as  they  were  holding  theirs. 
At  last  a  dark  head  rose  above  the  surface,  then  another. 
The  two  men  paddled  for  a  minute,  drawing  the  air  into 
their  lungs.  But  the  boy  did  not  reappear. 

As  the  seconds  passed,  Vere  began  to  feel  proud  of  him. 
He  was  doing  that  which  she  would  have  tried  to  do  had 
she  been  a  boy.  He  was  rivalling  the  men. 

Another  second  slipped  away — and  another.  He  was 
more  than  rivalling,  he  was  beating  the  men. 

They  dived  once  more.  She  saw  the  sun  gleam  on 
their  backs,  which  looked  polished  as  they  turned  slowly 
over,  almost  like  brown  porpoises. 

But  the  boy  remained  hidden  beneath  the  veil  of  water. 

Vere  began  to  feel  anxious.  What  if  some  accident 
had  happened  ?  What  if  he  had  been  caught  by  the  sea- 
weed, or  if  his  groping  hand  had  been  retained  by  some 
crevice  of  the  rock?  There  was  a  pain  at  her  heart. 
Her  quick  imagination  was  at  work.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  felt  his  agony,  took  part  in  his  struggle  to  regain 
his  freedom.  She  clinched  her  small  hands  and  set  her 
teeth.  She  held  her  breath,  trying  to  feel  exactly  as  he 

6 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

was  feeling.  And  then  suddenly  she  lifted  her  hands  up 
to  her  face,  covering  her  nostrils.  What  a  horrible  sen- 
sation it  was,  this  suffocation,  this  pressing  of  the  life 
out  of  the  body,  almost  as  one  may  push  a  person  brutally 
out  of  a  room!  She  could  bear  it  no  more,  and  she  drop- 
ped her  hands.  As  she  did  so  the  boy's  dark  head  rose 
above  the  sea. 

Vere  uttered  a  cry  of  joy. 

"Bravo!     Bravo!" 

She  felt  as  if  he  had  returned  from  the  dead.  He  was 
a  wonderful  boy. 

"Bravo!     Bravissimo!" 

Serenely  unconscious  of  her  enthusiasm,  the  boy 
swam  slowly  for  a  moment,  breathing  the  air  into  his 
lungs,  then  serenely  dived  again. 

"Vere!"  called  a  woman's  voice  from  the  house — 
"Vere!" 

"Madre!"  cried  the  girl  in  reply,  but  without  turning 
away  from  the  sea.  ' '  I  am  here !  Do  come  out !  I  want 
to  show  you  something." 

On  a  narrow  terrace  looking  towards  Naples  a  tall 
figure  appeared. 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Here!  here!" 

The  mother  smiled  and  left  the  terrace,  passed  through 
a  little  gate,  and  almost  directly  was  standing  beside 
the  girl,  saying: 

"What  is  it?  Is  there  a  school  of  whales  in  the  Bay, 
or  have  you  sighted  the  sea-serpent  coming  from  Capri  ?" 

"No.no!     But — you  see  that  boat  ?" 

"Yes.  The  men  are  diving  for  frutti  di  mare,  aren't 
they?" 

Vere  nodded. 

"The  men  are  nothing.  But  there  is  a  boy  who  is 
wonderful." 

"Why?    What  does  he  do?" 

7 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"He  stays  under  water  an  extraordinary  time.  Now 
wait.  Have  you  got  a  watch,  Madre  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Take  it  out,  there's  a  darling,  and  time  him.  I  want 
to  know — there  he  is!  You  see?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  got  your  watch?  Wait  till  he  goes  under! 
Wait  a  minute!  There!  He's  gone!  Now  begin." 

She  drew  into  her  lungs  a  long  breath,  and  held  it. 
The  mother  smiled,  keeping  her  eyes  obediently  on  the 
watch  which  lay  in  her  hand. 

There  was  a  silence  between  them  as  the  seconds 
passed. 

"Really,"  began  the  mother  presently,  "he  must  be — " 

"Hush,  Madre,  hush!" 

The  girl  had  clasped  her  hands  tightly.  Her  eyes 
never  left  the  sea.  The  tick,  tick  of  the  watch  was  just 
audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  May  morning.  At  last — 

"There  he  is!"  cried  the  girl.  "Quick!  How  long 
has  he  been  under?" 

"Just  fifty  seconds." 

"I  wonder — I'm  sure  it's  a  record.  If  only  Gaspare 
were  here!  When  will  he  be  back  from  Naples  with 
Monsieur  Emile?" 

"About  twelve,  I  should  think.  But  I  doubt  if  they 
can  sail."  She  looked  out  to  sea,  and  added:  "I  think 
the  wind  is  changing  to  scirocco.  They  may  be  later." 

"He's  gone  down  again!" 

"I  never  saw  you  so  interested  in  a  diver  before,"  said 
the  mother.  "What  made  you  begin  to  look  at  the 
boy?" 

"He  was  singing.  I  heard  him,  and  his  voice  made  me 
feel — "  She  paused. 

"What?"  said  her  mother. 

"I  don't  know.  Un  poco  diavolesca,  I'm  afraid.  One 
thing,  though!  It  made  me  long  to  be  a  boy." 

8 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Did  it?" 

"Yes!  Madre,  tell  me  truly — sea-water  on  your  lips, 
as  the  fishermen  say — now  truly,  did  you  ever  want  me 
to  be  a  boy?" 

Hermione  Delarey  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She 
looked  away  over  the  still  sea,  that  seemed  to  be  slowly 
/osing  its  color,  and  she  thought  of  another  sea,  of  the 
Ionian  waters  that  she  had  loved  so  much.  They  had 
taken  her  husband  from  her  before  her  child  was  born, 
and  this  child's  question  recalled  to  her  the  sharp  agony 
of  those  days  and  nights  in  Sicily,  when  Maurice  lay  un- 
buried  in  the  Casa  del  Prete,  and  afterwards  in  the  hos- 
pital at  Marechiaro — of  other  days  and  nights  in  Italy, 
when,  isolated  with  the  Sicilian  boy,  Gaspare,  she  had 
waited  patiently  for  the  coming  of  her  child. 

"Sea-water,  Madre,  sea- water  on  your  lips!" 

Her  mother  looked  down  at  her. 

"Do  you  think  I  wished  it,  Vere?" 

"To-day  I  do." 

"Why  to-day?" 

"Because  I  wish  it  so  much.  And  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  perhaps  I  wish  it  because  you  once  wished  it  for  me. 
You  thought  I  should  be  a  boy?" 

"I  felt  sure  you  would  be  a  boy." 

' '  Madre !     How  strange ! ' ' 

The  girl  was  looking  up  at  her  mother.  Her  dark 
eyes — almost  Sicilian  eyes  they  were — opened  very  wide, 
and  her  lips  remained  slightly  parted  after  she  had  spoken. 

"I  wonder  why  that  was?"  she  said  at  length. 

"I  have  wondered  too.  It  may  have  been  that  I  was 
always  thinking  of  your  father  in  those  days,  recalling 
him — well,  recalling  him  as  he  had  been  in  Sicily.  He 
went  away  from  me  so  suddenly  that  somehow  his  going, 
even  when  it  had  happened,  for  a  long  time  seemed  to 
be  an  impossibility.  And  I  fancied,  I  suppose,  that  my 
child  would  be  him  in  a  way." 

9 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Come  back?" 

"Or  never  quite  gone." 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Povera  Madre  mia!"  at  last  she  said. 

But  she  did  not  seem  distressed  for  herself.  No  per- 
sonal grievance,  no  doubt  of  complete  love  assailed  her. 
And  the  fact  that  this  was  so  demonstrated,  very  quietly 
and  very  completely,  the  relation  existing  between  this 
mother  and  this  child. 

"I  wonder,  now,"  Vere  said,  presently,  "why  I  never 
specially  wished  to  be  a  boy  until  to-day — because,  after 
all,  it  can't  be  from  you  that  the  wish  came.  If  it  had 
been  it  must  have  come  long  ago.  And  it  didn't.  It 
only  came  when  I  heard  that  boy's  voice.  He  sings  like 
all  the  boys,  you  know,  that  have  ever  enjoyed  them- 
selves, that  are  still  enjoying  themselves  in  the  sun." 

"I  wish  he  would  sing  once  more!"  said  Hermione. 

"Perhaps  he  will.  Look!  He's  getting  into  the  boat. 
And  the  men  are  stopping  too." 

The  boy  was  very  quick  in  his  movements.  Almost 
before  Vere  had  finished  speaking  he  had  pulled  on  his 
blue  jersey  and  white  trousers,  and  again  taken  the  big 
oars  into  his  hands.  Standing  up,  with  his  face  set 
towards  the  islet,  he  began  once  more  to  propel  the  boat 
towards  it.  And  as  he  swung  his  body  slowly  to  and 
fro  he  opened  his  lips  and  sang  lustily  once  more, 

"  O  Napoli,  bella  Napoli  I" 

Hermione  and  Vere  sat  silently  listening  as  the  song 
grew  louder  and  louder,  till  the  boat  was  almost  in  the 
shadow  of  the  islet,  and  the  boy,  with  a  strong  stroke  of 
the  left  oar  turned  its  prow  towards  the  pool  over  which 
San  Francesco  watched. 

"They're  going  into  the  Saint's  Pool  to  have  a  siesta," 
said  Vere.  "Isn't  he  a  splendid  boy,  Madre?" 

As  she  spoke  the  boat  was  passing  almost  directly  be- 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

neath  them,  and  they  saw  its  name  painted  in  red  letters 
on  the  prow,  Sirena  del  Mare.  The  two  men,  one  young, 
one  middle-aged,  were  staring  before  them  at  the  rocks. 
But  the  boy,  more  sensitive,  perhaps,  than  they  were  to 
the  watching  eyes  of  women,  looked  straight  up  to  Vere 
and  to  her  mother.  They  saw  his  level  rows  of  white 
teeth  gleaming  as  the  song  came  out  from  his  parted  lips, 
the  shining  of  his  eager  dark  eyes,  full  of  the  careless 
merriment  of  youth,  the  black,  low-growing  hair  stirring 
in  the  light  sea  breeze  about  his  brow,  bronzed  by  sun  and 
wind.  His  slight  figure  swayed  with  an  easy  motion 
that  had  the  grace  of  perfectly  controlled  activity,  and 
his  brown  hands  gripped  the  great  oars  with  a  firmness 
almost  of  steel,  as  the  boat  glided  under  the  lee  of  the 
island,  and  vanished  from  the  eyes  of  the  watchers  into 
the  shadowy  pool  of  San  Francesco. 

When  the  boat  had  disappeared,  Vere  lifted  herself  up 
and  turned  round  to  her  mother. 

"Isn't  he  a  jolly  boy,  Madre?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hermione. 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  Her  eyes  were  still  on  the 
sea  where  the  boat  had  passed. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  almost  as  if  to  herself. 

For  the  first  time  a  little  cloud  went  over  Vere's  sen- 
sitive face. 

"Madre,  how  horribly  I  must  have  disappointed  you," 
she  said. 

The  mother  did  not  break  into  protestations.  She 
always  treated  her  child  with  sincerity. 

"Just  for  a  moment ,  Vere , ' '  she  answered .  ' '  And  then , 
very  soon,  you  made  me  feel  how  much  more  intimate 
can  be  the  relationship  between  a  mother  and  a  daughter 
than  between  a  mother  and  any  son." 

"Is  that  true,  really?" 

"I  think  it  is." 

"But  why  should  that  be?" 
3  ii 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Don't  you  think  Monsieur  Emile  could  tell  you  much 
better  than  I  ?  I  feel  all  the  things,  you  know,  that  he 
can  explain." 

There  was  a  touch  of  something  that  was  like  a  half- 
hidden  irony  in  her  voice. 

"Monsieur  Emile!  Yes,  I  think  he  understands  al- 
most everything  about  people,"  said  Vere,  quite  without 
irony.  "But  could  a  man  explain  such  a  thing  as  well  as 
a  woman?  I  don't  think  so." 

"We  have  the  instincts,  perhaps,  men  the  vocabulary. 
Come,  Vere,  I  want  to  look  over  into  the  Saint's  Pool  and 
see  what  those  men  are  doing." 

Vere  laughed. 

"Take  care,  Madre,  or  Gaspare  will  be  jealous." 

A  soft  look  came  into  Hermione's  face. 

"Gaspare  and  I  know  each  other,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"But  he  could  be  jealous — horribly  jealous." 

"Of  you,  perhaps,  Vere,  but  never  of  me.  Gaspare 
and  I  have  passed  through  too  much  together  for  any- 
thing of  that  kind.  Nobody  could  ever  take  his  place 
with  me,  and  he  knows  it  quite  well." 

"Gaspare's  a  darling,  and  I  love  him,"  said  Vere, 
rather  inconsequently.  "Shall  we  look  over  into  the 
Pool  from  the  pavilion,  or  go  down  by  the  steps?" 

"We'll  look  over." 

They  passed  in  through  a  gateway  to  the  narrow 
terrace  that  fronted  the  Casa  del  Mare  facing  Vesuvius, 
entered  the  house,  traversed  a  little  hall,  came  out  again 
into  the  air  by  a  door  on  its  farther  side,  and  made  their 
way  to  a  small  pavilion  that  looked  upon  the  Pool  of  San 
Francesco.  Almost  immediately  below,  in  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  cliff,  the  boat  was  moored.  The  two  men, 
lying  at  full  length  in  it,  their  faces  buried  in  their  hands, 
were  already  asleep.  But  the  boy,  sitting  astride  on  the 
prow,  with  his  bare  feet  dangling  on  each  side  of  it  to 
the  clear  green  water,  was  munching  slowly,  and  rather 

12 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

seriously,  a  hunch  of  yellow  bread,  from  which  he  cut 
from  time  to  time  large  pieces  with  a  clasp  knife.  As  he 
ate,  lifting  the  pieces  of  bread  to  his  mouth  with  the 
knife,  against  whose  blade  he  held  them  with  his  thumb, 
he  stared  down  at  the  depths  below,  transparent  here 
almost  to  the  sea  bed.  His  eyes  were  wide  with  reverie. 
He  seemed  another  boy,  not  the  gay  singer  of  five 
minutes  ago.  But  then  he  had  been  in  the  blaze  of  the 
sun.  Now  he  was  in  the  shade.  And  swiftly  he  had 
caught  the  influence  of  the  dimmer  light,  the  lack  of 
motion,  the  delicate  hush  at  the  feet  of  San  Fran- 
cesco. 

This  time  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  being  watched. 
His  reverie,  perhaps,  was  too  deep,  or  their  gaze  less 
concentrated  than  it  had  been  before.  And  after  a 
moment,  Hermione  moved  away. 

"You  are  going  in,  Madre?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  give  something  to  that  boy?" 

"Do  you  mean  money?" 

"Oh  no.  But  the  poor  thing's  eating  dry  bread, 
and— 

"And  what,  you  puss?" 

"Well,  he's  a  very  obedient  boy." 

"How  can  you  know  that?" 

"He  was  idling  in  the  boat,  and  I  called  out  to 
him  to  jump  into  the  sea,  and  he  jumped  in  immedi- 
ately." 

"Do  you  think  because  he  heard  you?" 

"Certainly  I  do." 

"You  conceited  little  creature!  Perhaps  he  was  only 
pleasing  himself!" 

"No,  Madre,  no.  I  think  I  should  like  to  give  him  a 
little  reward  presently — for  his  singing  too." 

"Get  him  a  dolce,  then,  from  Carmela,  if  there  is  one. 
And  you  can  give  him  some  cigarettes." 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  will.  He'll  love  that.  Oh  dear!  I  wish  he  didn't 
make  me  dissatisfied  with  myself!" 

"Nonsense,  Vere!" 

Hermione  bent  down  and  kissed  her  child.  Then  she 
went  rather  quickly  away  from  the  pavilion  and  entered 
the  Casa  del  Mare. 


"HE    LIFTED    HIS    BROWN    ARMS    ABOVE     HIS     HEAD,    UTTERED 
A    CRY,    AND    DIVED    CLEANLY    BELOW    THE    SURFACE" 


CHAPTER  II 

AFTER  her  mother  had  gone,  Vere  waited  for  a  moment, 
then  ran  lightly  to  the  house,  possessed  herself  of  a  dolce 
and  a  packet  of  cigarettes,  and  went  down  the  steps  to 
the  Pool  of  San  Francesco,  full  of  hospitable  intentions 
towards  the  singing  boy.  She  found  him  still  sitting 
astride  of  the  boat's  prow,  not  yet  free  of  his  reverie 
apparently;  for  when  she  gave  a  low  call  of  "Pescator!" 
prolonging  the  last  syllable  with  the  emphasis  and  the 
accent  of  Naples,  but  always  softly,  he  started,  and  nearly 
dropped  into  the  sea  the  piece  of  bread  he  was  lifting  to 
his  mouth.  Recovering  himself  in  time  to  save  the  bread 
deftly  with  one  brown  hand,  he  turned  half  round,  lean- 
ing on  his  left  arm,  and  stared  at  Vere  with  large,  in- 
quiring eyes.  She  stood  by  the  steps  and  beckoned  to 
him,  lifting  up  the  packet  of  cigarettes,  then  pointing  to 
his  sleeping  companions: 

"Come  here  for  a  minute!" 

The  boy  smiled,  sprang  up,  and  leaped  onto  the  islet. 
As  he  came  to  her,  with  the  easy,  swinging  walk  of  the 
barefooted  sea-people,  he  pulled  up  his  white  trousers, 
and  threw  out  his  chest  with  an  obvious  desire  to  "fare 
figura"  before  the  pretty  Padrona  of  the  islet.  When  he 
reached  her  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  bare  head  forget- 
fully, meaning  to  take  off  his  cap  to  her.  Finding  that 
he  had  no  cap,  he  made  a  laughing  grimace,  threw  up 
his  chin  and,  thrusting  his  tongue  against  his  upper  teeth 
and  opening  wide  his  mouth,  uttered  a  little  sound  most 
characteristically  Neapolitan  —  a  sound  that  seemed 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

lightly  condemnatory  of  himself.     This  done,  he  stood 
still  before  Vere,  looking  at  the  cigarettes  and  at  the  dolce. 

"I've  brought  these  for  you,"  she  said. 

"Grazie,  Signorina." 

He  did  not  hold  out  his  hand,  but  his  eyes,  now  de- 
voted entirely  to  the  cigarettes,  began  to  shine  with 
pleasure.  Vere  did  not  give  him  the  presents  at  once. 
She  had  something  to  explain  first. 

"We  mustn't  wake  them,"  she  said,  pointing  towards 
the  boat  in  which  the  men  were  sleeping.  "Come  a  little 
way  with  me." 

She  retreated  a  few  steps  from  the  sea,  followed  closely 
by  the  eager  boy. 

"We  sha'n't  disturb  them  now,"  she  said,  stopping. 
"Do  you  know  why  I've  brought  you  these  ?" 

She  stretched  out  her  hands,  with  the  dolce  and  the 
cigarettes. 

The  boy  threw  his  chin  up  again  and  half  shut  his  eyes. 

"No,  Signorina." 

"Because  you  did  what  I  told  you." 

She  spoke  rather  with  the  air  of  a  little  queen. 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  call  out  to  you  from  up  there?" 
— she  pointed  to  the  cliff  above  their  heads — "when  you 
were  sitting  in  the  boat  ?  I  called  to  you  to  go  in  after 
the  men." 

"Why?" 

"Why!     Because  I  thought  you  were  a  lazy  boy." 

He  laughed.  All  his  brown  face  gave  itself  up  to 
laughter — eyes,  teeth,  lips,  cheeks,  chin.  His  whole 
body  seemed  to  be  laughing.  The  idea  of  his  being 
lazy  seemed  to  delight  his  whole  spirit. 

"You  would  have  been  lazy  if  you  hadn't  done  what  I 
told  you,"  said  Vere,  emphatically,  forcing  her  words 
through  his  merriment  with  determination  "You  know 
you  would." 

16 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  never  heard  you  call,  Signorina." 

"You  didn't?" 

He  shook  his  head  several  times,  bent  down,  dipped 
his  fingers  in  the  sea,  put  them  to  his  lips:  "I  say  it." 

"Really?" 

There  was  a  note  of  disappointment  in  her  voice.  She 
felt  dethroned. 

"But  then,  you  haven't  earned  these,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  him  almost  with  rebuke,  "if  you  went  in  of  your 
own  accord." 

"I  go  in  because  it  is  my  mestiere,  Signorina,"  the 
boy  said,  simply.  "I  go  in  by  force." 

He  looked  at  her  and  then  again  at  the  cigarettes.  His 
expression  said,  "Can  you  refuse  me?"  There  was  a 
quite  definite  and  conscious  attempt  to  cajole  her  to 
generosity  in  his  eyes,  and  in  the  pose  he  assumed.  Vere 
saw  it,  and  knew  that  if  there  had  been  a  mirror  within 
reach  at  that  moment  the  boy  would  have  been  looking 
into  it,  frankly  admiring  himself. 

In  Italy  the  narcissus  blooms  at  all  seasons  of  the 
year. 

She  was  charmed  by  the  boy,  for  he  did  his  luring  well, 
and  she  was  susceptible  to  all  that  was  naturally  pict- 
uresque. But  a  gay  little  spirit  of  resistance  sprang  up 
like  a  flame  and  danced  within  her. 

She  let  her  hands  fall  to  her  sides. 

"But  you  like  going  in?" 

"Signorina?" 

"You  enjoy  diving?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  again  used  what  seem- 
ed with  him  a  favorite  expression. 

"Signorina,  I  must  enjoy  it,  by  force." 

"You  do  it  wonderfully.  Do  you  know  that?  You 
do  it  better  than  the  men." 

Again  the  conscious  look  came  into  the  boy's  face  and 
body,  as  if  his  soul  were  faintly  swaggering. 

17 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"There  is  no  one  in  the  Bay  who  can  dive  better  than 
I  can,"  he  answered.  "Giovannino  thinks  he  can.  Well, 
let  him  think  so.  He  would  not  dare  to  make  a  bet  with 
me." 

"He  would  lose  it  if  he  did,"  said  Vere.  "I'm  sure 
he  would.  Just  now  you  were  under  water  nearly  a 
minute  by  my  mother's  watch." 

"Where  is  the  Signora?"  said  the  boy,  looking  round. 

"Why  d'you  ask?" 

"Why — I  can  stay  under  longer  than  that." 

"Now,  look  here!"  said  the  girl,  eagerly.  "Never 
mind  Madre!  Go  down  once  for  me,  won't  you?  Go 
down  once  for  me,  and  you  shall  have  the  dolce  and  two 
packets  of  cigarettes." 

"I  don't  want  the  dolce,  Signorina;  a  dolce  is  for 
women,"  he  said,  with  the  complete  bluntness  charac- 
teristic of  Southern  Italians  and  of  Sicilians. 

"The  cigarettes,  then." 

"Va  bene.    But  the  water  is  too  shallow  here." 

"We'll  take  my  boat." 

She  pointed  to  a  small  boat,  white  with  a  green  line, 
that  was  moored  close  to  them. 

"Va  bene,"  said  the  boy  again. 

He  rolled  his  white  trousers  up  above  his  knees,  strip- 
ped off  his  blue  jersey,  leaving  the  thin  vest  that  was 
beneath  it,  folded  the  jersey  neatly  and  laid  it  on  the 
stones,  tightened  his  trousers  at  the  back,  then  caught 
hold  of  the  rope  by  which  Vere's  boat  was  moored  to  the 
shore  and  pulled  the  boat  in. 

Very  carefully  he  helped  Vere  into  it. 

"I  know  a  good  place,"  he  said,  "where  you  can  see 
right  down  to  the  bottom." 

Taking  the  oars  he  slowly  paddled  a  little  way  out  to 
a  deep  clear  pool  of  the  sea. 

"I'll  go  in  here,  Signorina." 

He  stood  up  straight,  with  his  feet  planted  on  each 

18 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

side  of  the  boat's  prow,  and  glanced  at  the  water  in- 
timately, as  might  a  fish.  Then  he  shot  one  more  glance 
at  Vere  and  at  the  cigarettes,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
lifted  his  brown  arms  above  his  head,  uttered  a  cry,  and 
dived  cleanly  below  the  surface,  going  down  obliquely 
till  he  was  quite  dim  in  the  water. 

Vere  watched  him  with  a  deep  attention.  This  feat 
of  the  boy  fascinated  her.  The  water  between  them 
made  him  look  remote,  delicate  and  unearthly — neither 
boy  nor  fish.  His  head,  she  could  see,  was  almost  touch- 
ing the  bottom.  She  fancied  that  he  was  actually 
touching  bottom  with  his  hands.  Yes,  he  was.  Bending 
low  over  the  water  she  saw  his  brown  fingers,  stretched 
out  and  well  divided,  promenading  over  the  basin  of  the 
sea  as  lightly  and  springily  as  the  claws  of  a  crab  tip- 
toeing to  some  hiding-place.  Presently  he  let  himself 
down  a  little  more,  pressed  his  flat  palms  against  the 
ground,  and  with  the  impetus  thus  gained  made  his  body 
shoot  back  towards  the  surface  feet  foremost.  Then 
bringing  his  body  up  till  it  was  in  a  straight  line  with  his 
feet,  he  swam  slowly  under  water,  curving  first  in  this 
direction  then  in  that,  with  a  lithe  ease  that  was  en- 
chantingly  graceful.  Finally,  he  turned  over  on  his  back 
and  sank  slowly  down  until  he  looked  like  a  corpse  lying 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Then  Vere  felt  a  sickness  of  fear  steal  over  her,  and 
leaning  over  the  sea  till  her  face  almost  touched  the  water, 
she  cried  out  fiercely: 

"Come  up!     Come  up!     Presto!     Presto!" 

As  the  boy  had  seemed  to  obey  her  when  she  cried  out 
to  him  from  the  summit  of  the  cliff,  so  he  seemed  to  obey 
her  now. 

When  her  voice  died  down  into  the  sea- depths  he 
rose  from  those  depths,  and  she  saw  his  eyes  laugh- 
ing, his  lips  laughing  at  her,  freed  from  the  strange 
veil  of  the  water,  which  had  cast  upon  him  a  spec- 

19 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

tral  aspect,  the  likeness  of  a  thing  deserted  by  its 
soul. 

"Did  you  hear  me  that  time?"  Vere  said,  rather 
eagerly. 

The  boy  lifted  his  dark  head  from  the  water  to  shake 
it,  drew  a  long  breath,  trod  water,  then  threw  up  his 
chin  with  the  touch  of  tongue  against  teeth  which  is  the 
Neapolitan  negative. 

"You  didn't!     Then  why  did  you  come  up?" 

He  swam  to  the  boat. 

"It  pleased  me  to  come." 

She  looked  doubtful. 

"  I  believe  you  are  birbante,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  I  am 
nearly  sure  you  are." 

The  boy  was  just  getting  out,  pulling  himself  up  slowly 
to  the  boat  by  his  arms,  with  his  wet  hands  grasping  the 
gunwale  firmly.  He  looked  at  Vere,  with  the  salt  drops 
running  down  his  sunburnt  face,  and  dripping  from  his 
thick,  matted  hair  to  his  strong  neck  and  shoulders. 
Again  his  whole  face  laughed,  as,  nimbly,  he  brought 
his  legs  from  the  water  and  stood  beside  her. 

' '  B  irbante ,  Signorina  ? ' ' 

"Yes.     Are  you  from  Naples?" 

"I  come  from  Mergellina,  Signorina." 

Vere  looked  at  him  half-doubtfully,  but  still  with  in- 
nocent admiration.  There  was  something  perfectly 
fearless  and  capable  about  him  that  attracted  her. 

He  rowed  in  to  shore. 

"How  old  are  you?"she  asked. 

"Sixteen  years  old,  Signorina." 

"I  am  sixteen,  too." 

They  reached  the  islet,  and  Vere  got  out.  The  boy 
followed  her,  fastened  the  boat,  and  moved  away  a  few 
steps.  She  wondered  why,  till  she  saw  him  stop  in  a  sun- 
patch  and  let  the  beams  fall  full  upon  him. 

"You  aren't  afraid  of  catching  cold?"  she  asked. 

20 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  threw  up  his  chin.     His  eyes  went  to  the  cigarettes. 

"Yes,"  said  Ver.e,  in  answer  to  the  look,  "you  shall 
have  one.  Here!" 

She  held  out  the  packet.  Very  carefully  and  neatly 
the  boy,  after  holding  his  right  hand  for  a  moment  to  the 
sun  to  get  dry,  drew  out  a  cigarette. 

"Oh,  you  want  a  match!" 

He  sprang  away  and  ran  lightly  to  the  boat.  Without 
waking  his  companions  he  found  a  matchbox  and  lit  the 
cigarette.  Then  he  came  back,  on  the  way  stopping  to 
get  into  his  jersey. 

Vere  sat  down  on  a  narrow  seat  let  into  the  rock  close 
to  the  sun -patch.  She  was  nursing  the  dolce  on  her 
knee. 

"You  won't  have  it?"  she  asked. 

He  gave  her  his  usual  negative,  again  stepping  full  into 
the  sun. 

"Well,  then,  I  shall  eat  it.  You  say  a  dolce  is  for 
women!" 

"SI,  Signorina,"  he  answered,  quite  seriously. 

She  began  to  devour  it  slowly,  while  the  boy  drew  the 
cigarette  smoke  into  his  lungs  voluptuously. 

"And  you  are  only  sixteen?"  she  asked. 

"SI,  Signorina." 

"As  young  as  I  am!     But  you  look  almost  a  man." 

"Signorina,  I  have  always  worked.     I  am  a  man." 

He  squared  his  shoulders.  She  liked  the  determination, 
the  resolution  in  his  face ;  and  she  liked  the  face,  too.  He 
was  a  very  handsome  boy,  she  thought,  but  somehow  he 
did  not  look  quite  Neapolitan.  His  eyes  lacked  the 
round  and  staring  impudence  characteristic  of  many 
Neapolitans  she  had  seen.  There  was  something  at 
times  impassive  in  their  gaze.  In  shape  they  were  long, 
and  slightly  depressed  at  the  corners  by  the  cheeks, 
and  they  had  full,  almost  heavy,  lids.  The  features  of  the 
boy  were  small  and  straight,  and  gave  no  promise  of 

21 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

eventual  coarseness.  He  was  splendidly  made.  When 
Vere  looked  at  him  she  thought  of  an  arrow.  Yet  he  was 
very  muscular,  and  before  he  dived  she  had  noticed  that 
on  his  arms  the  biceps  swelled  up  like  smooth  balls  of 
iron  beneath  the  shining  brown  skin. 

"What  month  were  you  born  in  ?"  she  asked. 

"Signorina,  I  believe  I  was  born  in  March.  I  believe 
I  was  sixteen  last  March." 

"Then  I  am  older  than  you  are!" 

This  seemed  to  the  boy  a  matter  of  indifference, 
though  it  was  evidently  exercising  the  girl  beside  him. 
She  had  finished  the  dolce  now,  and  he  was  smoking  the 
last  fraction  of  an  inch  of  the  cigarette,  economically 
determined  to  waste  none  of  it,  even  though  he  burnt 
his  fingers. 

"Have  another  cigarette,"  Vere  added,  after  a  pause 
during  which  she  considered  him  carefully.  "You  can't 
get  anything  more  out  of  that  one." 

"Grazie,  Signorina." 

He  took  it  eagerly. 

"Do  tell  me  your  name,  won't  you?"  Vere  went  on. 

"Ruffo,  Signorina." 

"Ruffo — that's  a  nice  name.  It  sounds  strong  and 
bold.  And  you  live  at  Mergellina?" 

"Si,  Signorina.  But  I  wasn't  born  there.  I  wasn't 
born  in  Naples  at  all." 

"Where  were  you  born?" 

"In  America,  Signorina,  near  New  York.  I  am  a 
Sicilian." 

"A  Sicilian,  are  you!" 

"SI,  Signorina." 

"I  am  a  little  bit  Sicilian,  too;  only  a  little  tiny  bit — 
but  still — " 

She  waited  to  see  the  effect  upon  him.  He  looked  at 
her  steadily  with  his  long  bright  eyes. 

"You  are  Sicilian,  Signorina?" 

32 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"My  great-grandmother  was." 

"Si?" 

His  voice  sounded  incredulous. 

"Don't  you  believe  me?"  she  cried,  rather  hotly. 

"Ma  si,  Signorina!  only — that's  not  very  Sicilian,  if  the 
rest  is  English.  You  are  English,  Signorina,  aren't  you  ?" 

"The  rest  of  me  is.     Are  you  all  Sicilian?" 

"Signorina,  my  mother  is  Sicilian." 

"And  your  father,  too?" 

The  boy's  face  suddenly  clouded. 

"Signorina,  my  father  is  dead,"  he  said,  in  a  changed 
voice.  "Now  I  live  with  my  mother  and  my  step-father. 
He — Patrigno — he  is  Neapolitan." 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  boat.  The  boy  looked 
round. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  the  boat,  Signorina,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  must  you?"  Vere  said.  "What  a  pity!  But 
look,  they  are  really  still  asleep." 

"I  must  go  back,  Signorina,"  he  protested. 

"You  want  to  sleep,  too,  perhaps?" 

He  seized  the  excuse. 

"SI,  Signorina.  Being  under  the  sea  so  much — it 
tires  the  head  and  the  eyes.  I  want  to  sleep,  too." 

His  face,  full  of  life,  denied  his  words,  but  Vere  only 
said: 

"Here  are  the  cigarettes." 

"Grazie,  Signorina." 

"And  I  promised  you  another  packet.  Well,  wait  here 
— just  here,  d'you  see? — under  the  bridge,  and  I'll  throw 
it  down,  and  you  must  catch  it." 

"SI,  Signorina." 

He  took  his  stand  on  the  spot  she  pointed  out,  and  she 
disappeared  up  the  steps  towards  the  house. 

"Madre!  madre!" 

Hermione  heard  Vere's  voice  calling  below  a  moment 
later. 

23 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"What  is  it?" 

There  was  a  quick  step  on  the  stairs,  and  the  girl  ran  in. 

"One  more  packet  of  cigarettes — may  I  ?  It's  instead 
of  the  dolce.  Ruffo  says  only  women  eat  sweet  things." 

"Ruffo!" 

"Yes,  that's  his  name.  He's  been  diving  for  me.  Yon 
never  saw  anything  like  it !  And  he's  a  Sicilian.  Isn't  it 
odd?  And  sixteen — just  as  I  am.  May  I  have  the 
cigarettes  for  him?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  In  that  drawer  there's  a  whole  box 
of  the  ones  Monsieur  Emile  likes." 

"There  would  be  ten  cigarettes  in  a  packet.  I'll  give 
him  ten." 

She  counted  them  swiftly  out. 

"There!  And  I'll  make  him  catch  them  all,  one  by 
one.  It  will  be  more  fun  than  throwing  only  a  packet. 
Addio,  mia  bella  Madre!  Addi-io!  Addi-io!" 

And  singing  the  words  to  the  tune  of  "Addio,  mia  bella 
Napoli,"  she  flitted  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs. 

"Ruffo!     Ruffo!" 

A  minute  later  she  was  leaning  over  the  bridge  to  the 
boy,  who  stood  sentinel  below.  He  looked  up,  and  saw 
her  laughing  face  full  of  merry  mischief,  and  prepared  to 
catch  the  packet  she  had  promised  him. 

"Ruffo,  I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  can't  find  another  packet  of 
cigarettes." 

The  boy's  bright  face  changed,  looked  almost  sad,  but 
he  called  up: 

"Non  fa  niente,  Signorina!"  He  stood  still  for  a 
moment,  then  made  a  gesture  of  salutation,  and  added; 
"Thank  you,  Signorina.  A  rivederci!" 

He  moved  to  go  to  the  boat,  but  Vere  cried  out,  quickly: 

"Wait,  Ruffo!     Can  you  catch  well?" 

"Signorina?" 

"Look  out  now!" 

Her  arm  was  thrust  out  over  the  bridge,  and  Ruffo, 

M 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

staring  up,  saw  a  big  cigarette — a  cigarette  such  as  he 
had  never  before  seen — in  her  small  ringers.  Quickly  he 
made  a  receptacle  of  his  joined  hands,  his  eyes  sparkling 
and  his  lips  parted  with  happy  anticipation. 

"One!" 

The  cigarette  fell  and  was  caught. 

"Two!" 

A  second  fell.  But  this  time  Ruffo  was  unprepared, 
and  it  dropped  on  the  rock  by  his  bare  feet. 

"Stupido!"  laughed  the  girl. 

"Ma,  Signorina — !" 

"Three!" 

It  had  become  a  game  between  them,  and  continued 
to  be  a  game  until  all  the  ten  cigarettes  had  made  their 
journey  through  the  air. 

Vere  would  not  let  Ruffo  know  when  a  cigarette  was 
coming,  but  kept  him  on  the  alert,  pretending,  holding 
it  poised  above  him  between  finger  and  thumb  until  even 
his  eyes  blinked  from  gazing  upward;  then  dropping  it 
when  she  thought  he  was  unprepared,  or  throwing  it  like 
a  missile.  But  she  soon  knew  that  she  had  found  her 
match  in  the  boy.  And  when  he  caught  the  tenth  and 
last  cigarette  in  his  mouth  she  clapped  her  hands,  and 
cried  out  so  enthusiastically  that  one  of  the  men  in  the 
boat  heaved  himself  up  from  the  bottom,  and,  choking 
down  a  yawn,  stared  with  heavy  amazement  at  the 
young  virgin  of  the  rocks,  and  uttered  a  "Che  Diavolo!" 
under  his  stiff  mustache. 

1  Vere  saw  his  astonishment,  and  swiftly,  with  a  parting 
wave  of  her  hand  to  Ruffo,  she  disappeared,  leaving  her 
prote'ge'  to  run  off  gayly  with  his  booty  to  his  comrades  of 
the  Sirena  del  Mare. 


CHAPTER  III 

"I  CAN  see  the  boat,  Vere,"  said  Hermione,  when  the 
girl  came  back,  her  eyes  still  gleaming  with  memories  of 
the  fun  of  the  cigarette  game  with  Ruffo. 

"Where,  Madre?" 

She  sat  down  quickly  beside  her  mother  on  the  window- 
seat,  leaning  against  her  confidentially  and  looking  out 
over  the  sea.  Hermione  put  her  arm  round  the  girl's 
shoulder. 

"There!  Don't  you  see?"  She  pointed.  "It  has 
passed  Casa  Pantano." 

"I  see!  yes,  that  is  Gaspare,  and  Monsieur  Emile  in 
the  stern.  They  won't  be  late  for  lunch.  I  almost 
wish  they  would,  Madre." 

"Why?" 

"I'm  not  a  bit  hungry.  Ruffo  wouldn't  eat  the  dolce, 
so  I  did." 

"Ruffo!  You  seem  to  have  made  great  friends  with 
that  boy." 

She  did  not  speak  rebukingly,  but  with  a  sort  of  tender 
amusement. 

"I  really  have,"  returned  Vere. 

She  put  her  head  against  her  mother's  shoulder. 

"Isn't  this  odd,  Madre?  Twice  in  the  short  time  I've 
known  Ruffo,  he's  obeyed  me.  The  first  time  he  was  in 
the  boat.  I  called  out  to  him  to  dive  in,  and  he  did  it 
instantly.  The  second  time  he  was  under  water,  at  the 
very  bottom  of  the  sea.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  dead, 
and  for  a  minute  I  felt  frightened.  So  I  called  out  to  him 
to  come  up,  and  he  came  up  directly." 

26 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"But  that  only  shows  that  he's  a  polite  boy  and  does 
what  you  wish." 

"No.no.  He  didn't  hear  me  either  time.  He  had  no 
idea  I  had  called.  But  each  time  I  did,  without  hearing 
me  he  had  the  sudden  wish  to  do  what  I  wanted.  Now, 
isn't  that  curious?" 

She  paused. 

"Madre?"  she  added. 

"You  think  you  influenced  him?" 

"Don't  you  think  I  did?" 

"Perhaps  so.  There's  the  sympathetic  link  of  youth 
between  you.  You  are  gloriously  young,  both  of  you, 
little  daughter.  And  youth  turns  naturally  to  youth, 
though  I'm  afraid  old  age  doesn't  always  turn  naturally 
to  old  age." 

"What  do  you  know  about  old  age,  Madre?  You 
haven't  a  gray  hair." 

She  spoke  with  anxious  encouragement. 

"It's  true.     My  hair  declines  to  get  gray." 

"I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  be  gray." 

"Probably  not.  But  there's  another  grayness — Life 
behind  one  instead  of  before;  the  emotional — " 

She  stopped  herself.     This  was  not  for  Vere. 

"They're  close  in,"  she  said,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

She  waved  her  hand.  The  big  man  in  the  stern  of  the 
boat  took  off  his  hat  in  reply,  and  waved  his  hand,  too. 
The  rower  pulled  with  the  vivacity  that  comes  to  men 
near  the  end  of  a  task,  and  the  boat  shot  into  the  Pool 
of  the  Saint,  where  Ruffo  was  at  that  moment  enjoying 
his  third  cigarette. 

"I'll  run  down  and  meet  Monsieur  Emile,"  said  Vere. 

And  she  disappeared  as  swiftly  as  she  had  come. 

The  big  man  who  got  out  of  the  boat  could  not  claim 

Hermione's  immunity  from  gray  hairs.     His  beard  was 

lightly  powdered  with  them,  and  though  much  of  the 

still  thick  hair  on  his  head  was  brown,  and  his  figure  was 

3  27 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

erect,  and  looked  strong  and  athletic — he  seemed  what 
he  was,  a  man  of  middle  age,  who  had  lived,  and  thought, 
and  observed  much.  His  eyes  had  the  peculiar  expres- 
sion of  eyes  that  have  seen  very  many  and  very  various 
sights.  It  was  difficult  to  imagine  them  looking  sur- 
prised, impossible  to  imagine  them  not  looking  keenly  in- 
telligent. The  vivacity  of  youth  was  no  longer  in  them, 
but  the  vividness  of  intellect,  of  an  intellect  almost  fiercely 
alive  and  tenacious  of  its  life,  was  never  absent  from  them. 

As  Artois  got  out,  the  boat's  prow  was  being  held  by 
the  Sicilian,  Gaspare,  now  a  man  of  thirty-five,  but  still 
young-looking.  Many  Sicilians  grow  old  quickly — hard 
life  wears  them  out.  But  Gaspare's  fate  had  been  easier 
than  that  of  most  of  his  contemporaries  and  friends  of 
Marechiaro.  Ever  since  the  tragic  death  of  the  beloved 
master,  whom  he  still  always  spoke  of  as  "mio  Padrone," 
he  had  been  Hermione's  faithful  attendant  and  devoted 
friend.  Yes,  she  knew  him  to  be  that — she  wished  him 
to  be  that.  Their  stations  in  life  might  be  different, 
but  they  had  come  to  sorrow  together.  They  had  suf- 
fered together  and  been  in  sympathy  while  they  suffered. 
He  had  loved  what  she  had  loved,  lost  it  when  she  had 
lost  it,  wept  for  it  when  she  had  wept. 

And  he  had  been  with  her  when  she  had  waited  for  the 
coming  of  the  child. 

Hermione  really  cared  for  three  people:  Gaspare  was 
one  of  them.  He  knew  it.  The  other  two  were  Vere 
and  Emile  Artois. 

"Vere,"  said  Artois,  taking  her  two  hands  closely  in 
his  large  hands,  and  gazing  into  her  face  with  the  kind, 
even  affectionate  directness  that  she  loved  in  him:  "do 
you  know  that  to-day  you  are  looking  insolent?" 

"Insolent!"  said  the  girl.     "How  dare  you!" 

She  tried  to  take  her  hands  away. 

"Insolently  young,"  he  said,  keeping  them  authori 
tatively. 

28 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"But  I  am  young.  What  do  you  mean,  Monsieur 
Emile?" 

"  I  ?     It  is  your  meaning  I  am  searching  for." 

"I  sha'n't  let  you  find  it.  You  are  much  too  curious 
about  people.  But — I've  been  having  a  game  this  morn- 
ing." 

"A  game!     Who  was  your  playmate ?" 

"Never  mind." 

But  her  bright  eyes  went  for  the  fraction  of  a  second 
to  Ruffo,  who  close  by  in  the  boat  was  lying  at  his  ease, 
his  head  thrown  back,  and  one  of  the  cigarettes  between 
his  lips. 

"What!     That  boy  there ?" 

"Nonsense!  Come  along!  Madre  has  been  sitting 
at  the  window  for  ages  looking  out  for  the  boat.  Couldn't 
you  sail  at  all  Gaspare?" 

Artois  had  let  go  her  hands,  and  now  she  turned  to  the 
Sicilian. 

"To  Naples,  Signorina,  and  nearly  to  the  Antico 
Giuseppone  coming  back." 

' '  But  we  had  to  do  a  lot  of  tacking, ' '  said  Artois.  ' '  Mon 
Dieu!  That  boy  is  smoking  one  of  my  cigarettes!  You 
sacrilegious  little  creature!  You  have  been  robbing  my 
box!" 

Gaspare's  eyes  followed  Artois'  to  Ruffo,  who  was 
watching  them  attentively,  but  who  now  looked  sud- 
denly sleepy. 

"It  belongs  to  Madre." 

"It  was  bought  for  me." 

"I  like  you  better  with  a  pipe.  You  are  too  big  for 
cigarettes.  And  besides,  artists  always  smoke  pipes." 

"Allow  me  to  forget  that  I  try  to  be  an  artist  when  I 
come  to  the  island,  Vere." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  air  of  re- 
lenting. "You  poor  thing,  here  you  are  a  king  incog- 
nito, and  we  all  treat  you  quite  familiarly.  I'll  even 

29 


A  SPIRIT  IN   PRISON 

go  first,  regardless  of  etiquette."  And  she  went  off  to 
the  steps  that  led  upward  to  the  house. 

Artois  followed  her.  As  he  went  he  said  to  Ruffo  in 
the  Neapolitan  dialect: 

"It's  a  good  cigarette,  isn't  it?  You  are  in  luck  this 
morning." 

"Si,  Signore,"  said  the  boy,  smiling.  "The  Signorina 
gave  me  ten." 

And  he  blew  out  a  happy  cloud. 

There  was  something  in  his  welcoming  readiness  of 
response,  something  in  his  look  and  voice,  that  seemed 
to  stir  within  the  tenacious  mind  of  Artois  a  quivering 
chord  of  memory. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  have  spoken  to  that  boy  in  Naples  ?"  he 
thought,  as  he  mounted  the  steps  behind  Vere. 

Hermione  met  him  at  the  door  of  her  room,  and  they 
went  in  almost  directly  to  lunch  with  Vere.  When  the 
meal  was  over  Vere  disappeared,  without  saying  why, 
and  Hermione  and  Artois  returned  to  Hermione 's  room 
to  have  coffee.  By  this  time  the  day  was  absolutely 
windless,  the  sky  had  become  nearly  white,  and  the  sea 
was  a  pale  gray,  flecked  here  and  there  with  patches  of 
white. 

"This  is  like  a  June  day  of  scirocco,"  said  Artois,  as 
he  lit  his  pipe  with  the  air  of  a  man  thoroughly  at  home. 
"I  wonder  if  it  will  succeed  in  affecting  Vere's  spirits. 
This  morning,  when  I  arrived,  she  looked  wildly  young. 
But  the  day  held  still  some  blue  then." 

Hermione  was  settling  herself  slowly  in  a  low  chair  near 
the  window  that  faced  Capri.  The  curious,  rather 
ghastly  light  from  the  sea  fell  over  her. 

"Vere  is  very  sensitive  to  almost  all  influences,"  she 
said.  "You  know  that,  Emile." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  throwing  away  the  match  he  had  been 
using;  "and  the  influence  of  this  morning  roused  her  to 
joy.  What  was  it?" 

30     - 


A  SPIRIT  IN   PRISON 

"She  was  very  excited  watching  a  diver  for  frutti  di 
mare." 

"A  boy  about  seventeen  or  eighteen,  black  hair, 
Arab  eyes,  bronze  skin,  a  smile  difficult  to  refuse,  and  a 
figure  almost  as  perfect  as  a  Nubian's,  but  rather  squarer 
about  the  shoulders?" 

"You  have  seen  him,  then?" 

"Smoking  ten  of  my  special  Khali  Targa  cigarettes, 
with  his  bare  toes  cocked  up,  and  one  hand  drooping  into 
the  Saint's  Pool." 

Hermione  smiled. 

"My  cigarettes!  They're  common  property  here," 
she  said. 

"That  boy  can't  be  a  pure-bred  Neapolitan,  surely. 
And  yet  he  speaks  the  language.  There's  no  mistaking 
the  blow  he  gives  to  the  last  syllable  of  a  sentence." 

"He's  a  Sicilian,  Vere  says." 

"Pure  bred?" 

"I  don't  know." 

' '  I  fancy  I  must  have  run  across  him  somewhere  in  or 
about  Naples.  It  is  he  who  made  Vere,  as  I  told  her, 
look  so  insolently  young  this  morning." 

"Ah,  you  noticed!  I,  too,  thought  I  had  never  seen 
her  so  full  of  the  inner  spirit  of  youth — almost  as  he  was 
in  Sicily." 

"Yes,"  Artois  said,  gravely.  "In  some  things  she  is 
very  much  his  daughter." 

"In  some  things  only?"  asked  Hermione. 

"Don't  you  think  so ?  Don't  you  think  she  has  much 
of  you  in  her  also?  I  do." 

"Has  she?  I  don't  know  that  I  see  it.  I  don't  know 
that  I  want  to  see  it.  I  always  look  for  him  in  Vere. 
You  see,  I  dreamed  of  having  a  boy.  Vere  is  instead  of 
the  boy  I  dreamed  of,  the  boy — who  never  came,  who 
will  never  come." 

"My  friend,"  said  Artois,  very  seriously  and  gently, 

31 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"are  you  still  allowing  your  mind  to  dwell  upon  that  old 
imagination  ?  And  with  Vere  before  you,  can  you  regard 
her  merely  as  a  substitute,  an  understudy?" 

An  energy  that  was  not  free  from  passion  suddenly 
flamed  up  in  Hermione. 

"I  love  Vere,"  she  said.  "She  is  very  close  to  me. 
She  knows  it.  She  does  not  doubt  me  or  my  love." 

"But,"  he  quietly  persisted,  "you  still  allow  your  mind 
to  rove  ungoverned  among  those  dangerous  ways  of  the 
past?" 

"Emile,"  she  said,  still  speaking  with  vehemence,  "it 
may  be  very  easy  to  a  strong  man  like  you  to  direct  his 
thoughts,  to  keep  them  out  of  one  path  and  guide  them 
along  another.  It  may  be — I  don't  know  whether  it  is; 
but  I  don't  pretend  to  such  strength.  I  don't  believe 
it  is  ever  given  to  women.  Perhaps  even  strength  has 
its  sex — I  sometimes  think  so.  I  have  my  strength,  be- 
lieve me.  But  don't  require  of  me  the  peculiar  strength 
that  is  male." 

"The  truth  is  that  you  love  living  in  the  past  as  the 
Bedouin  loves  living  in  the  desert." 

"It  was  my  oasis,"  she  answered,  simply. 

"And  all  these  years — they  have  made  no  difference  ?" 

"Did  you  think  they  would?  Did  you  think  they 
had?" 

"I  hoped  so.  I  thought — I  had  begun  to  think  that 
you  lived  again  in  Vere." 

"Emile,  you  can  always  stand  the  truth,  can't  you? 
Don't  say  you  can't.  That  would  hurt  me  horribly. 
Perhaps  you  do  not  know  how  sometimes  I  mentally  lean 
on  you.  And  I  like  to  feel  that  if  you  knew  the  absolute 
truth  of  me  you  would  still  look  upon  me  with  the  same 
kind,  understanding  eyes  as  now.  Perhaps  no  one  else 
would.  Would  you,  do  you  think?" 

"I  hope  and  believe  I  could,"  he  said.  "You  do  not 
live  in  Vere.  Is  that  it?" 

32 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  Know  it  is  considered  the  right,  the  perfectly  nat- 
ural thing  that  a  mother,  stricken  as  I  have  been,  should 
find  in  time  perfect  peace  and  contentment  in  her  child. 
Even  you — you  spoke  of  'living  again.'  It's  the  con- 
secrated phrase,  Emile,  isn't  it?  I  ought  to  be  living 
again  in  Vere.  Well,  I'm  not  doing  that.  With  my 
nature  I  could  never  do  that.  Is  that  horrible?"  / 

"Ma  pauvre  amie!"  he  said. 

He  bent  down  and  touched  her  hand. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  more  calmly,  as  if  relieved, 
but  still  with  an  undercurrent  of  passion,  "whether  I 
could  ever  live  again  in  the  life  of  another.  But  if  I  did 
it  would  be  in  the  life  of  a  man.  I  am  not  made  to  live 
in  a  woman's  life,  really  to  live,  giving  out  the  force  that 
is  in  me.  I  know  I'm  a  middle-aged  woman — to  these 
Italians  here  more  than  that,  an  old  woman.  But  I'm 
not  a  finished  woman,  and  I  never  shall  be  till  I  die. 
Vere  is  my  child.  I  love  her  tenderly ;  more  than  that — 
passionately.  She  has  always  been  close  to  me,  as  you 
know.  But  no,  Emile,  my  relation  to  Vere,  hers  to  me, 
does  not  satisfy  all  my  need  of  love,  my  power  to  love. 
No,  no,  it  doesn't.  There's  something  in  me  that  wants 
more,  much  more  than  that.  There's  something  in  me 
that — I  think  only  a  son  of  his  could  have  satisfied  my 
yearning.  A  son  might  have  been  Maurice  come  back 
to  me,  come  back  in  a  different,  beautiful,  wonderfully 
pure  relation.  I  prayed  for  a  son.  I  needed  a  son. 
Don't  misunderstand  me,  Emile;  in  a  way  a  son  could 
never  have  been  so  close  to  me  as  Vere  is, — but  I  could 
have  lived  in  him  as  I  can  never  live  in  Vere.  I  could 
have  lived  in  him  almost  as  once  I  lived  in  Maurice. 
And  to-day  I—" 

She  got  up  suddenly  from  her  chair,  put  her  arms  on 
the  window-frame,  and  leaned  out  to  the  strange,  white 
day. 

"Emile,"  she  said,  in  a  moment,  turning  round  to  him, 

33 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  want  to  get  away,  on  to  the  sea.  Will  you  row  me 
out,  into  the  Grotto  of  Virgil?*  It's  so  dreadfully  white 
here,  white  and  ghastly.  I  can't  talk  naturally  here. 
And  I  should  like  to  go  on  a  little  farther,  now  I've  begun. 
It  would  do  me  good  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  dear 
brother  confessor.  Shall  we  take  the  little  boat  and  go  ?" 

"Of  course,"  he  said. 

"I'll  get  a  hat." 

She  was  away  for  two  or  three  minutes.  During  that 
time  Artois  stood  by  the  window  that  looked  towards 
Ischia.  The  stillness  of  the  day  was  intense,  and  gave 
to  his  mind  a  sensation  of  dream.  Far  off  across  the 
gray-and-white  waters,  partially  muffled  in  clouds  that 
almost  resembled  mist,  the  mountains  of  Ischia  were 
rather  suggested,  mysteriously  indicated,  than  clearly 
seen.  The  gray  cliffs  towards  Bagnoli  went  down  into 
motionless  water  gray  as  they  were,  but  of  a  different, 
more  pathetic  shade. 

There  was  a  luminous  whiteness  in  the  sky  that  affected 
the  eyes,  as  snow  does. 

Artois,  as  he  looked,  thought  this  world  looked  very 
old,  a  world  arranged  for  the  elderly  to  dwell  in.  Was  it 
not,  therefore,  an  appropriate  setting  for  him  and  for 
Hermione?  As  this  idea  came  into  his  mind  it  sent  a 
rather  bitter  smile  to  his  lips,  and  Hermione,  coming 
in  just  then,  saw  the  smile  and  said, — 

"What  is  it,  Emile?     Why  are  you  smiling?" 

"Perhaps  I  will  tell  you  when  we  are  on  the  sea,"  he 
answered. 

He  looked  at  her.  She  had  on  a  black  hat,  over  which 
a  white  veil  was  fastened.  It  was  tied  beneath  her  chin, 
and  hung  down  in  a  cloud  over  her  breast.  It  made 
him  think  of  the  strange  misty  clouds  which  brooded 
about  the  breasts  of  the  mountains  of  Ischia. 

*  The  grotto  described  in  this  book  is  not  really  the  Grotto  of 
Virgil,  but  it  is  often  called  so  by  the  fishermen  along  the  coast. 

34 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"Shall  we  go?"  she  said. 

"Yes.     What  is  Vere  doing?" 

"She  is  in  her  room." 

"What  is  she  doing  there?" 

"Reading,  I  suppose.  She  often  shuts  herself  up. 
She  loves  reading  almost  more  than  I  do." 

"Well?" 

Hermione  led  the  way  down-stairs.  When  they  were 
outside,  on  the  crest  of  the  islet,  the  peculiar  sickliness  of 
the  weather  struck  them  both  more  forcibly. 

"This  is  the  strangest  scirocco  effect  I  think  I  have 
ever  seen,"  said  Artois.  "It  is  as  if  nature  were  under 
the  influence  of  a  drug,  and  had  fallen  into  a  morbid 
dream,  with  eyes  wide  open,  and  pale,  inert  and  folded 
hands.  I  should  like  to  see  Naples  to-day,  and  notice 
if  this  weather  has  any  effect  upon  that  amazing  popula- 
tion. I  wonder  if  my  young  friend,  Marchese  Isidoro 
Panacci —  By-the-way,  I  haven't  told  you  about  him  ?" 

"No." 

"I  must.  But  not  now.  We  will  continue  our  former 
conversation.  Where  shall  we  find  the  boat,  the  small 
one?" 

' '  Gaspare  will  bring  it — Gaspare !     Gaspare ! ' ' 

"Signora!"  cried  a  strong  voice  below. 

"La  piccola  barca!" 

"Va  bene,  Signora!" 

They  descended  slowly.  It  would  have  been  almost 
impossible  to  do  anything  quickly  on  such  a  day.  The 
smallest  movement,  indeed,  seemed  almost  an  outrage, 
likely  to  disturb  the  great  white  dreamer  of  the  sea.  When 
they  reached  the  foot  of  the  cliff  Gaspare  was  there,  hold- 
ing the  little  craft  in  which  Vere  had  gone  out  with 
Ruffo. 

"Do  you  want  me,  Signora?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Gaspare.  Don  Emilio  will  row  me. 
We  are  only  going  a  very  little  way." 

35 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  stepped  in.  As  Artois  followed  her  he  said  to 
Gaspare: 

"Those  fishermen  have  gone?" 

"Five  minutes  ago,  Signore.     There  they  are!" 

He  pointed  to  a  boat  at  some  distance,  moving  slowly 
in  the  direction  of  Posilipo. 

"I  have  been  talking  with  them.  One  says  he  is  of 
my  country,  a  Sicilian." 

"The  boy?" 

"Si,  Signore,  the  giovinotto.  But  he  cannot  speak 
Sicilian,  and  he  has  never  been  in  Sicily,  poveretto!" 

Gaspare  spoke  with  an  accent  of  pity  in  which  there 
was  almost  a  hint  of  contempt. 

"A  rivederci,  Signore,"  he  added,  pushing  off  the  little 
boat. 

"A  rivederci,  Gaspare." 

Artois  took  the  oars  and  paddled  very  gently  out, 
keeping  near  to  the  cliffs  of  the  opposite  shore. 

"Even  San  Francesco  looks  weary  to-day,"  he  said, 
glancing  across  the  pool  at  the  Saint  on  his  pedestal. 
"I  should  not  be  surprised  if,  when  we  return,  we  find 
that  he  has  laid  down  his  cross  and  is  reclining  like  the 
tired  fishermen  who  come  here  in  the  night.  Where 
shall  we  go?" 

"To  the  Grotto  of  Virgil." 

"I  wonder  if  Virgil  was  ever  in  his  grotto?  I  wonder 
if  he  ever  came  here  on  such  a  day  of  sirocco  as  this,  and 
felt  that  the  world  was  very  old,  and  he  was  even  older 
than  the  world?" 

"Do  you  feel  like  that  to-day?" 

"I  feel  that  this  is  a  world  suitable  for  the  old,  for 
those  who  have  white  hairs  to  accord  with  the  white 
waters,  and  whose  nights  are  the  white  nights  of  age." 

"Was  that  why  you  were  smiling  so  strangely  just 
now  when  I  came  in?" 

"Yes." 

36 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  rowed  on  softly.  The  boat  slipped  out  of  the  Pool 
of  the  Saint,  and  then  they  saw  the  Capo  Coroglio  and 
the  Island  of  Nisida  with  its  fort.  On  their  right,  and 
close  to  them,  rose  the  weary-looking  cliffs,  honey- 
combed with  caverns,  and  seamed  with  fissures  as  an 
old  and  haggard  face  is  seamed  with  the  wrinkles  that 
tell  of  many  cares." 

"Here  is  the  grotto,"  said  Hermione,  almost  directly. 
"Row  in  gently." 

He  obeyed  her  and  turned  the  boat,  sending  it  in 
under  the  mighty  roof  of  rock. 

A  darkness  fell  upon  them.  They  had  a  safe,  en- 
closed sensation  in  escaping  for  a  moment  from  the 
white  day,  almost  as  if  they  had  escaped  from  a  white 
enemy. 

Artois  let  the  oars  lie  still  in  the  water,  keeping  his 
hands  lightly  upon  them,  and  both  Hermione  and  he 
were  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  listening  to  the  tiny  sounds 
made  now  and  then  by  drops  of  moisture  which  fell  from 
the  cavern  roof  softly  into  the  almost  silent  sea.  At  last 
Artois  said: 

"You  are  out  of  the  whiteness  now.  This  is  a  shad- 
owed place  like  a  confessional,  where  murmuring  lips 
tell  to  strangers  the  stories  of  their  lives.  I  am  not  a 
stranger,  but  tell  me,  my  friend,  about  yourself  and 
Vere.  Perhaps  you  scarcely  know  how  deeply  the 
mother  and  child  problem  interests  me — that  is,  when 
mother  and  child  are  two  real  forces,  as  you  and  Vere 
are." 

"Then  you  think  Vere  has  force?" 

"Do  not  you?" 

"What  kind  of  force?" 

"  You  mean  physical,  intellectual,  or  moral  ?  Suppose 
I  say  she  has  the  force  of  charm!" 

"Indeed  she  has  that,  as  he  had.  That  is  one  of  the 
attributes  she  derives  from  Maurice.'* 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Yes.  He  had  a  wonderful  charm.  And  then,  Vere 
has  passion." 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it.     Where  does  she  get  that  from?" 

"He  was  full  of  the  passion  of  the  South." 

"I  think  Vere  has  a  touch  of  Northern  passion  in  her, 
too,  combined  perhaps  with  the  other.  And  that,  I 
think,  she  derives  from  you.  Then  I  discern  in  Vere 
intellectual  force,  immature,  embryonic  if  you  like,  but 
unmistakable." 

"That  does  not  come  from  me,"  Hermione  said,  sud- 
denly, almost  with  bitterness. 

"Why — why  will  you  be  unnecessarily  humiliated?" 
Artois  exclaimed. 

His  voice  was  confusedly  echoed  by  the  cavern,  which 
broke  into  faint,  but  deep  mutterings.  Hermione  looked 
up  quickly  to  the  mysterious  vault  which  brooded  above 
them,  and  listened  till  the  chaotic  noises  died  away. 
Then  she  said: 

"Do  you  know  what  they  remind  me  of?" 

"Of  what?" 

"My  efforts.  Those  efforts  I  made  long  ago  to  live 
again  in  work." 

"When  you  wrote?" 

"Yes,  when  I  tried  to  throw  my  mind  and  my  heart 
down  upon  paper.  How  strange  it  was!  I  had  Vere — 
but  she  wasn't  enough  to  still  the  ache.  And  I  knew 
what  work  can  be,  what  a  consolation,  because  I  knew 
you.  And  I  stretched  out  my  hands  to  it — I  stretched 
out  my  soul.  And  it  was  no  use;  I  wasn't  made  to  be 
a  successful  writer.  When  I  spoke  from  my  heart  to 
try  and  move  men  and  save  myself,  my  words  were 
seized,  as  yours  were  just  now  by  the  rock — seized,  and 
broken,  and  flung  back  in  confusion.  They  struck  my 
heart  like  stones.  Emile,  I'm  one  of  those  people  who 
can  only  do  one  thing:  I  can  only  feel." 

38 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"It  is  true  that  you  could  never  be  an  artist.  Perhaps 
you  were  made  to  be  an  inspiration." 

"But  that's  not  enough.  The  r61e  of  starter  to  those 
who  race — I  haven't  the  temperament  to  reconcile  my- 
self to  that.  It's  not  that  I  have  in  me  a  conceit  which 
demands  to  be  fed.  But  I  have  in  me  a  force  that 
clamors  to  exercise  itself.  Only  when  I  was  living  on 
Monte  Amato  with  Maurice  did  I  feel  that  that  force 
was  being  used  as  God  meant  it  to  be  used." 

"In  loving?" 

"In  loving  passionately  something  that  was  utterly- 
worthy  to  be  loved." 

Artois  was  silent.  He  knew  Hermione's  mistake. 
He  knew  what  had  never  been  told  him:  that  Maurice 
had  been  false  to  her  for  the  love  of  the  peasant  girl 
Maddalena.  He  knew  that  Maurice  had  been  done  to 
death  by  the  betrayed  girl's  father,  Salvatore.  And 
Gaspare  knew  those  things,  too.  But  through  all  these 
years  these  two  men  had  so  respected  silence,  the  nobility 
of  it,  the  grand  necessity  of  it  in  certain  circumstances 
of  life,  that  they  had  never  spoken  to  each  other  of  the 
black  truth  known  to  them  both.  Indeed,  Artois  be- 
lieved that  even  now,  after  more  than  sixteen  years,  if 
he  ventured  one  word  against  the  dead  man  Gaspare 
would  be  ready  to  fly  at  his  throat  in  defence  of  the 
loved  Padrone.  For  this  divined  and  persistent  loyalty 
Artois  had  a  sensat'on  of  absolute  love.  Between  him 
and  Gaspare  there  must  always  be  the  barrier  of  a  great 
and  mutual  reserve.  Yet  that  very  reserve,  because 
there  was  something  truly  delicate,  and  truly  noble  in 
it,  was  as  a  link  of  steel  between  them.  They  were 
watchdogs  of  Hermione.  They  had  been  watchdogs 
through  all  these  years,  guarding  her  from  the  knowledge 
of  a  truth.  And  so  well  had  they  done  her  service  that 
now  to-day  she  was  able  to  say,  with  clasped  hands  and 
the  light  of  passion  in  her  eyes: 

39 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Something  that  was  utterly  worthy  to  be  loved." 

When  Artois  spoke  again  he  said: 

"And  that  force  cannot  be  fully  used  in  loving  Vere?" 

"No,  Emile.     Is  that  very  horrible,  very  unnatural?" 

"Why  should  it  be?" 

"I  have  tried — I  have  tried  for  years,  Emile,  to  make 
Vere  enough.  I  have  even  been  false  with  myself.  I 
have  said  to  myself  that  she  was  enough.  I  did  that 
after  I  knew  that  I  could  never  produce  work  of  any 
value.  When  Vere  was  a  baby  I  lived  only  for  her. 
Again,  when  she  was  beginning  to  grow  up,  I  tried  to 
live,  I  did  live  only  for  her.  And  I  remember  I  used  to 
say,  I  kept  on  saying  to  myself,  'This  is  enough  for  me. 
I  do  not  need  any  more  than  this.  I  have  had  my  life. 
I  am  now  a  middle-aged  woman.  I  must  live  in  my 
child.  This  will  be  my  satisfaction.  This  is  my  satis- 
faction. This  is  using  rightly  and  naturally  all  that 
force  I  feel  within  me.'  I  kept  on  saying  this.  But 
there  is  something  within  one  which  rises  up  and  defies 
a  lie — however  beautiful  the  lie  is,  however  noble  it  is. 
And  I  think  even  a  lie  can  sometimes  be  both.  Don't 
you,  Emile?" 

It  almost  seemed  to  him  for  a  moment  that  she  knew 
his  lie  and  Gaspare's. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "I  do  think  so." 

"Well,  that  lie  of  mine — it  was  defied.  And  it  had  no 
more  courage." 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  something,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  has  happened  to-day?" 

"To-day?" 

"Yes.  Something  has  happened  either  to-day  or  very 
recently — I  am  sure  of  it — that  has  stirred  up  within  you 
this  feeling  of  acute  dissatisfaction.  It  was  always  there. 
But  something  has  called  it  into  the  open.  What  has 
done  that?" 

Hermione  hesitated. 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know,"  he  said, 

"I  was  wondering — yes,  I  do  know.  I  must  be  truth- 
ful with  myself — with  you.  I  do  know.  But  it  seems  so 
strange,  so  almost  inexplicable,  and  even  rather  absurd." 

"Truth  often  seems  absurd." 

"It  was  that  boy,  that  diver  for  frutti  di  mare — Ruffo." 

"The  boy  with  the  Arab  eyes?" 

"Yes.  Of  course  I  have  seen  many  boys  full  of  life 
and  gayety  and  music.  There  are  so  many  in  Italy. 
But — well,  I  don't  know — perhaps  it  was  partly  Vere." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Vere  was  so  interested  in  him.  It  may  have  been 
that.  Or  perhaps  it  was  something  in  his  look  and  in 
his  voice  when  he  was  singing.  I  don't  really  know 
what  it  was.  But  that  boy  made  me  feel — more  horri- 
bly than  I  have  ever  felt  before — that  Vere  is  not  enough. 
Emile,  there  is  some  hunger,  so  persistent,  so  peculiar, 
so  intense,  that  one  feels  as  if  it  must  be  satisfied  event- 
ually, as  if  it  were  impossible  for  it  not  to  be  satisfied. 
I  think  the  human  hunger  for  immortal  life  is  like  that, 
and  I  think  my  hunger  for  a  son  is  like  that.  I  know 
my  hunger  can  never  be  satisfied.  And  yet  it  lives  on 
in  me  just  as  if  it  knew  more  than  I  know,  as  if  it  knew 
that  it  could  and  must.  After  all  these  years  I  can't, 
no,  I  can't  reconcile  myself  to  the  fact  that  Maurice  was 
taken  from  me  so  utterly,  that  he  died  without  stamping 
himself  upon  a  son.  It  seems  as  if  it  couldn't  be.  And 
I  feel  to-day  that  I  cannot  bear  that  it  is."  v 

There  were  tears  standing  in  her  eyes.     She  had  spoken ' 
with  a  force  of  feeling,  with  a  depth  of  sincerity,  that 
startled  Artois,  intimately  as  he  knew  her.      Till   this 
moment  he  had  not  quite  realized  the  wonderful  per-  - 
sistence  of  love  in  the  hearts  of  certain  women,  and  not 
only  the  persistence  of  love's  existence,  but  of  its  exist- 
ence undiminished,  unabated  by  time. 

"How  am  I  to  bear  it?"  she  said,  as  he  did  not  speak. 

41 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  cannot  tell.  I  am  not  worthy  to  know.  And  be- 
sides, I  must  say  to  you,  Hermione,  that  one  of  the 
greatest  mysteries  in  human  life,  at  any  rate  to  me,  is 
this:  how  some  human  beings  do  bear  the  burdens  laid 
upon  them.  Christ  bore  His  cross.  But  there  has  only- 
been,  since  the  beginning  of  things,  one  Christ,  and  it  is 
unthinkable  that  there  can  ever  be  another.  But  all 
these  who  are  not  Christ,  how  is  it  they  bear  what  they 
do  bear?  It  is  easy  to  talk  of  bravery,  the  necessity  for 
it  in  life.  It  is  always  very  easy  to  talk.  The  thing  that 
is  impossible  is  to  understand.  How  can  you  come  to  me 
to  help  you,  my  friend?  And  suppose  I  were  to  try. 
How  could  I  try,  except  by  saying  that  I  think  Vere  is 
very  worthy  to  be  loved  with  all  your  love?" 

"You  love  Vere,  don't  you,  Emile?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  do.     You  don't  doubt  that ?" 

"Never." 

"After  all  I  have  said,  the  way  I  have  spoken,  you 
might." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it  for  a  moment." 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  any  mother  who  would  not,  if  I 
spoke  to  her  as  I  have  spoken  to  you  to-day?" 

I  think  there  is  a  great  deal  of  untruth  spoken  of 
mother's  love,  a  great  deal  of  misconception  about  it, 
as  there  is  about  most  very  strange,  and  very  wonderful 
and  beautiful  things.  But  are  you  so  sure  that  if  your 
husband  had  stamped  himself  upon  a  boy  this  force 
within  you  could  have  been  satisfied?" 

"I  have  believed  so." 

She  was  silent.  Then  she  added,  quietly  "  I  do  believe 
so." 

He  did  not  speak,  but  sat  looking  down  at  the  sea, 
which  was  full  of  dim  color  in  the  cave. 

"I  think  you  are  doubting  that  it  would  have  been 
so?"  she  said,  at  last. 

42 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Yes,  that  is  true.     I  am  doubting." 

"I  wonder  why?" 

"I  cannot  help  feeling  that  there  is  passion  in  you, 
such  passion  as  could  not  be  satisfied  in  any  strict, 
maternal  relationship . ' ' 

"But  I  am  old,  dear  Emile,"  she  said,  very  simply. 

"When  I  was  standing  by  that  window,  looking  at  the 
mountains  of  Ischia,  I  was  saying  to  myself,  'This  is  an 
old,  tired  world,  suitable  for  me — and  for  you.  We  are 
in  our  right  environment  to-day.'  I  was  saying  that, 
Hermione,  but  was  I  believing  it,  really?  I  don't  think 
I  was.  And  I  am  ten  years  older  than  you,  and  I  have 
been  given  a  nature  that  was,  I  think,  always  older  than 
yours  could  ever  be." 

"I  wonder  if  that  is  so." 

She  looked  at  him  very  directly,  even  searchingly,  not 
with  eager  curiosity,  but  with  deep  inquiry. 

"You  know,  Emile,"  she  added,  "I  tell  you  very 
much,  but  you  tell  me  very  little.  Not  that  I  wish  to 
ask  anything — no.  I  respect  all  your  reserve.  And 
about  your  work:  you  tell  me  all  that.  It  is  a  great 
thing  in  my  life,  your  work.  Perhaps  you  don't  realize 
how  sometimes  I  live  in  the  book  that  you  are  doing, 
almost  as  if  I  were  writing  it  myself.  But  your  inner 
life—" 

"But  I  have  been  frankness  itself  with  you,"  said 
Artois.  "To  no  one  have  I  ever  said  so  much  as  to 
you." 

"Yes,  I  know,  about  many  things.  But  about  emo- 
tion, love, — not  friendship,  the  other  love — do  you  get 
on  without  that  ?  When  you  say  your  nature  has  always 
been  older  than  mine,  do  you  mean  that  it  has  always 
been  harder  to  move  by  love,  that  it  has  had  less  need 
of  love?" 

"I  think  so.  For  many  years  in  my  life  I  think  that 
work  has  filled  the  place  love  occupies  in  many,  perhaps 
4  43 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

in  most  men's  lives.  Everything  comes  second  to  work. 
I  know  that,  because  if  any  one  attempts  to  interfere 
with  my  work,  or  to  usurp  any  of  the  time  that  should 
be  given  to  it,  any  regard  I  may  have  for  that  person 
turns  at  once  to  irritation,  almost  to  hatred." 

' '  I  have  never  done  that  ?' ' 

"You — no.  Of  course,  I  have  been  like  other  men. 
When  I  was  young — well,  Hermione,  after  all  I  am  a 
Frenchman,  and  though  I  am  of  Normandy,  still  I 
passed  many  years  in  Paris,  as  you  know." 

"All  that  I  understand.  But  the  real  thing?  Such 
as  I  have  known?" 

"I  have  never  broken  my  heart  for  any  one,  though 
I  have  known  agitations.  But  even  those  were  long 
ago.  And  since  I  was  thirty-five  I  have  never  felt  really 
dominated  by  any  one.  Before  that  time  I  occasionally 
passed  under  the  yoke,  I  believe,  like  other  men.  Why 
do  you  fix  your  eyes  on  me  like  that  ?" 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  could  ever  pass  under  the 
yoke  again.'' 

"Honestly,  I  do  not  think  so.  I  am  not  sure.  When 
can  one  be  certain  that  one  will  never  be,  or  do,  this  or 
that?  Surely," — he  smiled, — "you  are  not  afraid  for 
me?" 

"I  do  not  say  that.  But  I  think  you  have  forces  in 
you  not  fully  exercised  even  by  your  work." 

"Possibly.  But  there  the  years  do  really  step  in  and 
count  for  something,  even  for  much.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  as  the  years  increase,  the  man  who  cares  at  all  for 
intellectual  pleasures  is  able  to  care  for  them  more,  is 
able  to  substitute  them,  without  keen  regret,  without 
wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth,  for  certain  other  pleasures, 
to  which,  perhaps,  formerly  he  clung.  That  is  why  the 
man  who  is  mentally  and  bodily — you  know  what  I 
mean?" 

"Yes." 

44 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Has  such  an  immense  advantage  in  years  of  decline 
over  the  man  who  is  merely  a  bodily  man." 

"I  am  sure  that  is  true.     But — " 

"What  is  it?" 

' '  The  heart  ?     What  about  that  ?" 

"Perhaps  there  are  some  hearts  that  can  fulfil  them- 
selves sufficiently  in  friendship." 

As  Artois  said  this  his  eyes  rested  upon  Hermione  with 
an  expression  in  them  that  revealed  much  that  he  never 
spoke  in  words.  She  put  out  her  hand,  and  took  his, 
and  pressed  it,  holding  hers  over  it  upon  the  oar. 

"Emile,"  she  said,  "sometimes  you  make  me  feel  un- 
worthy and  ungrateful  because — because  I  still  need,  I 
dare  to  need  more  than  I  have  been  given.  Without 
you  I  don't  know  how  I  should  have  faced  it." 

"Without  me  you  would  never  have  had  to  face  it." 

That  was  the  cry  that  rose  up  perpetually  in  the  heart 
of  Artois,  the  cry  that  Hermione  must  never  hear.  He 
said  to  her  now: 

"Without  you,  Hermione,  I  should  be  dust  in  the  dust 
of  Africa!" 

"Perhaps  we  each  owe  something  to  the  other,"  she 
said.  "It  is  blessed  to  have  a  debt  to  a  friend." 

"Would  to  God  that  I  could  pay  all  my  debt  to  you!" 
Artois  exclaimed. 

Again  the  cavern  took  up  his  voice  and  threw  it  back 
to  the  sea  in  confused  and  hollow  mutterings.  They 
both  looked  up,  as  if  some  one  were  above  them,  warn- 
ing them  or  rebuking  them.  At  that  instant  they  had 
the  feeling  that  they  were  being  watched.  But  there 
was  only  the  empty  gray  sea  about  them,  and  over  their 
heads  the  rugged,  weary  rock  that  had  leaned  over  the 
sea  for  countless  years. 

"Hark!  '  said  Artois,  "it  is  telling  me  that  my  debt 
to  you  can  never  be  paid:  only  in  one  way  could  it  be 
partially  discharged.  If  I  could  show  you  a  path  t© 

45 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

happiness,  the  happiness  you  long  for,  and  need,  the 
passionate  happiness  of  the  heart  that  is  giving  where 
it  rejoices  to  give — for  your  happiness  must  always  lie  in 
generosity — I  should  have  partially  paid  my  debt  to  you. 
But  that  is  impossible." 

"I've  made  you  sad  to-day  by  my  complaining,"  she 
said,  with  self-rebuke ;  "I'm  sorry.  You  didn't  realize  ?" 

"  How  it  was  with  you  ?  No,  not  quite — I  thought  you 
were  more  at  peace  than  you  are." 

"Till  to-day  I  believe  I  was  half  deceived  too." 

"That  singing  boy,  that — what  is  his  name?" 

"Ruffo." 

"That  Ruffo,  I  should  like  to  run  a  knife  into  him 
under  the  left  shoulder-blade.  How  dare  he,  a  raga- 
muffin from  some  hovel  of  Naples,  make  you  know  that 
you  are  unhappy?" 

"How  strange  it  is  what  outside  things,  or  people  who 
have  no  connection  with  us  or  with  our  lives,  can  do  to 
us  unconsciously!"  she  said.  "I  have  heard  a  hundred 
boys  sing  on  the  Bay,  seen  a  hundred  rowing  their  boats 
into  the  Pool — and  just  this  one  touches  some  chord, 
and  all  the  strings  of  my  soul  quiver." 

"Some  people  act  upon  us  somewhat  as  nature  does 
sometimes.  And  Vere  paid  the  boy.  There  is  another 
irony  of  unconsciousness.  Vere,  bone  of  your  bone, 
flesh  of  your  flesh,  rewards  your  pain-giver.  How  we 
hide  ourselves  from  those  we  love  best  and  live  with 
most  intimately!  You,  her  mother,  are  a  stranger  to 
Vere.  Does  not  to-day  prove  it  ?" 

"Ah,  but  Vere  is  not  a  stranger  to  me.  That  is  where 
the  mother  has  the  advantage  of  the  child." 

Artois  did  not  make  any  response  to  this  remark.  To 
cover  his  silence,  perhaps,  he  grasped  the  oars  more 
firmly  and  began  to  back  the  boat  out  of  the  cave. 
Both  felt  that  it  was  no  longer  necessary  to  stay  in  this 
confessional  of  the  rock. 

46 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

As  they  came  out  under  the  gray  ness  of  the  sky,  Her- 
mione,  with  a  change  of  tone,  said: 

"And  your  friend?  The  Marchese — what  is  his 
name?" 

"Isidore  Panacci." 

"Tell  me  about  him." 

"He  is  a  very  perfect  type  of  a  complete  Neapolitan 
of  his  class.  He  has  scarcely  travelled  at  all,  except  in 
Italy.  Once  he  has  been  in  Paris,  where  I  met  him,  and 
once  to  Lucerne  for  a  fortnight.  Both  his  father  and 
mother  are  Neapolitans.  He  is  a  charming  fellow, 
utterly  unintellectual,  but  quite  clever;  shrewd,  sharp 
at  reading  character,  marvellously  able  to  take  care  of 
himself,  and  hold  his  own  with  anybody.  A  cat  to  fall 
on  his  feet!  He  is  apparently  born  without  any  sense 
of  fear,  and  with  a  profound  belief  in  destiny.  He  can 
drive  four-in-hand,  swim  for  any  number  of  hours  with- 
out tiring,  ride — well,  as  an  Italian  cavalry  officer  can 
ride,  and  that  is  not  badly.  His  accomplishments?  He 
can  speak  French — abominably,  and  pick  out  all  im- 
aginable tunes  on  the  piano,  putting  instinctively  quite 
tolerable  basses.  I  don't  think  he  ever  reads  anything, 
except  the  Giorno  and  the  Matti-no.  He  doesn't  care  for 
politics,  and  likes  cards,  but  apparently  not  too  much. 
They're  no  craze  with  him.  He  knows  Naples  inside 
out,  and  is  as  frank  as  a  child  that  has  never  been  pun- 
ished." 

"I  should  think  he  must  be  decidedly  attractive?" 

"Oh,  he  is.  One  great  attraction  he  has — he  appears 
to  have  no  sense  at  all  that  difference  of  age  can  be,  a 
barrier  between  two  men.  He  is  twenty-four,  and  I  am 
what  I  am.  He  is  quite  unaware  that  there  is  any  gulf 
between  us.  In  every  way  he  treats  me  as  if  I  were 
twenty-four." 

"Is  that  refreshing  or  embarrassing?" 

"I  find  it  generally  refreshing.  His  family  accepts 

47 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  situation  with  perfect  naivete*.  I  am  welcomed  as 
Doro's  chum  with  all  the  good- will  in  the  world." 

Hermione  could  not  help  laughing,  and  Artois  echoed 
her  laugh. 

"Merely  talking  about  him  has  made  you  look  years 
younger,"  she  declared.  "The  influence  of  the  day  has 
lifted  from  you." 

"It  would  not  have  fallen  upon  Isidore,  I  think. 
And  yet  he  is  full  of  sentiment.  He  is  a  curious  instance 
of  a  very  common  Neapolitan  obsession." 

"What  is  that?" 

"He  is  entirely  obsessed  by  woman.  His  life  centres 
round  woman.  You  observe  I  use  the  singular.  I  do 
that  because  it  is  so  much  more  plural  than  the  plural 
in  this  case.  His  life  is  passed  in  love-affairs,  in  a  sort 
of  chaos  of  amours." 

"How  strange  that  is!" 

"You  think  so,  my  friend?" 

"Yes.  I  never  can  understand  how  human  beings 
can  pass  from  love  to  love,  as  many  of  them  do.  I  never 
could  understand  it,  even  before  I — even  before  Sicily." 

"You  are  not  made  to  understand  such  a  thing." 

"But  you  do?" 

"I?  Well,  perhaps.  But  the  loves  of  men  are  not  as 
your  love." 

"Yet  his  was,"  she  answered.  "And  he  was  a  true 
Southerner,  despite  his  father." 

"Yes,  he  was  a  true  Southerner,"  Artois  replied. 

For  once  he  was  off  his  guard  with  her,  and  uttered 
his  real  thought  of  Maurice,  not  without  a  touch  of  the 
irony  that  was  characteristic  of  him. 

Immediately  he  had  spoken  he  was  aware  of  his  indis- 
cretion. But  Hermione  had  not  noticed  it.  He  saw  by 
her  eyes  that  she  was  far  away  in  Sicily.  And  when  the 
boat  slipped  into  the  Saint's  Pool,  and  Gaspare  came  to 
the  water's  edge  to  hold  the  prow  while  they  got  out,  she 

48 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

rose  from  her  seat  slowly,  and  almost  reluctantly,  like 
one  disturbed  in  a  dream  that  she  would  fain  continue. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Signorina,  Gaspare?"  she  asked 
him.  "Has  she  been  out?" 

"No,  Signora      She  is  still  in  the  house." 

"Still  reading!"  said  Artois.  "Vere  must  be  quite  a 
book- worm!" 

"Will  you  stay  to  dinner,  Emile?" 

"Alas,  I  have  promised  the  Marchesino  Isidoro  to  dine 
with  him.  Give  me  a  cup  of  tea  a  la  Russe,  and  one  of 
Ruffo's  cigarettes,  and  then  I  must  bid  you  adieu.  I'll 
take  the  boat  to  the  Antico  Giuseppone,  and  then  get 
another  there  as  far  as  the  gardens." 

"One  of  Ruffo's  cigarettes!"  Hermione  echoed,  as  they 
went  up  the  steps.  "That  boy  seems  to  have  made  him- 
self one  of  the  family  already." 

"Yet  I  wish,  as  I  said  in  the  cave,  that  I  had  put  a 
knife  into  him  under  the  left  shoulder-blade — before  this 
morning." 

They  spoke  lightly.  It  seemed  as  if  each  desired  for 
the  moment  to  get  away  from  their  mood  in  the  confes- 
sional of  Virgil's  Grotto,  and  from  the  sadness  of  the 
white  and  silent  day. 

As  to  Ruffo,  about  whom  they  jested,  he  was  in  sight 
of  Naples,  and  not  far  from  Mergellina,  still  rowing  with 
tireless  young  arms,  and  singing  to  "Bella  Napoli,"  wfth 
a  strong  resolve  in  his  heart  to  return  to  the  Saint's  Pool 
on  the  first  opportunity  and  dive  for  more  cigarettes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  the  Antico  Giuseppone,  Artois  left  the  boat  from 
the  islet  and,  taking  another,  was  rowed  towards  the 
public  gardens  of  Naples,  whose  trees  were  faintly  visible 
far  off  across  the  Bay.  Usually  he  talked  familiarly  to 
any  Neapolitan  with  whom  he  found  himself,  but  to-day 
he  was  taciturn,  and  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  broad-bot- 
tomed craft  looking  towards  the  city  in  silence  while  the 
boatman  plied  his  oars.  The  memory  of  his  conversa- 
tion with  Hermione  in  the  Grotto  of  Virgil,  of  her  man- 
ner, the  look  in  her  eyes,  the  sound  of  her  voice  there, 
gave  him  food  for  thought  that  was  deep  and  serious. 

Although  Artois  had  an  authoritative,  and  often  an 
ironical  manner  that  frightened  timid  people,  he  was  a 
man  capable  of  much  emotion  and  of  great  loyalty.  He 
did  not  easily  trust  or  easily  love,  but  in  those  whose 
worth  he  had  thoroughly  proved  he  had  a  confidence  as 
complete  as  that  of  a  child.  And  where  he  placed  his 
complete  confidence  he  placed  also  his  affection.  The 
one  went  with  the  other  almost  as  inevitably  as  the 
wave  goes  with  the  wind. 

In  their  discussion  about  the  emotion  of  the  heart 
Artois  had  spoken  the  truth  to  Hermione.  As  he  had 
grown  older  he  had  felt  the  influence  of  women  less. 
The  pleasures  of  sentiment  had  been  gradually  super- 
seded in  his  nature — or  so  at  least  he  honestly  believed 
—by  the  purely  intellectual  pleasures.  More  and  more 
completely  and  contentedly  had  he  lived  in  his  work, 
and  in  the  life  of  preparation  for  it.  This  life  could 

5° 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

never  be  narrow,  for  Artois  was  a  traveller,  and  studied 
many  lands. 

In  the  years  that  had  elapsed  since  the  tragedy  in 
Sicily,  when  the  husband  of  Hermione  had  met  his  death 
suddenly  in  the  sea,  almost  in  sight  of  the  home  of  the 
girl  he  had  betrayed,  the  fame  of  Artois  had  grown 
steadily.  And  he  was  jealous  of  his  fame  almost  as  a 
good  woman  is  jealous  of  her  honor.  This  jealousy  had 
led  him  to  a  certain  selfishness  of  which  he  was  quite 
aware — even  to  a  certain  hardness  such  as  he  had  hinted 
to  Hermione.  Those  who  strove,  or  seemed  likely  to 
strive  to  interrupt  him  in  his  work,  he  pushed  out  of  his 
life.  Even  if  they  were  charming  women  he  got  rid  of 
them.  And  the  fact  that  he  did  so  proved  to  him,  and 
not  improbably  to  them,  that  he  was  more  wrapped  up 
in  the  gratification  of  the  mind  than  in  the  gratification 
of  the  heart,  or  of  the  body.  It  was  not  that  the  charm 
of  charming  women  had  ceased  to  please  him,  but  it 
seemed  to  have  ceased  really  to  fascinate  him. 

Long  ago,  before  Hermione  married,  he  had  felt  for 
her  a  warm  and  intimate  friendship.  He  had  even  been 
jealous  of  Maurice.  Without  being  at  all  in  love,  he  had 
cared  enough  for  Hermione  to  be  jealous.  Before  her 
marriage  he  had  looked  forward  in  imagination  down  a 
vista  of  long  years,  and  had  seen  her  with  a  husband, 
then  with  children,  always  more  definitely  separated 
from  himself. 

And  he  had  seen  himself  exceptionally  alone,  even 
almost  miserably  alone. 

Then  fate  had  spun  tragedy  into  her  web.  He  had 
nearly  died  in  Africa,  and  had  been  nursed  back  to  life 
by  this  friend  of  whom  he  had  been  jealous.  And  they 
had  gone  together  to  Sicily,  to  the  husband  whose  mem- 
ory Hermione  still  adored.  And  then  had  followed 
swiftly  the  murder,  the  murderer's  departure  to  America, 
saved  by  the  silence  of  Gaspare,  and  the  journey  of  the 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

bereaved  woman  to  Italy,  where  Artois  had  left  her  and 
returned  to  France. 

Once  more  Artois  had  his  friend,  released  from  the 
love  of  another  man.  But  he  wished  it  were  not  so. 
Hermione's  generosity  met  with  a  full  response  of  gen- 
erosity from  him.  All  his  egotism  and  selfishness 
dropped  from  him  then,  shaken  down  like  dead  leaves 
by  the  tempest  of  a  genuine  emotion.  His  knowledge 
of  her  grief,  his  understanding  of  its  depth,  brought  to 
him  a  sorrow  that  was  keen,  and  even  exquisitely  pain- 
ful. For  a  long  while  he  was  preoccupied  by  an  intense 
desire  to  assuage  it.  He  strove  to  do  so  by  acting  almost 
in  defiance  of  his  nature,  by  fostering  deception.  From 
the  Abetone  Hermoine  had  written  him  letters,  human 
documents — the  tale  of  the  suffering  of  a  woman's  heart. 
Many  reserves  she  had  from  him  and  from  every  one. 
The  most  intimate  agony  was  for  her  alone,  and  she  kept 
it  in  her  soul  as  the  priest  keeps  the  Sacred  Host  in  its 
tabernacle.  But  some  of  her  grief  she  showed  in  her 
letters,  and  some  of  her  desire  for  comfort.  And  with- 
out any  definite  intention,  she  indicated  to  her  subtle 
and  devoted  friend  the  only  way  in  which  he  could 
console  her. 

For  once,  driven  by  his  emotion,  he  took  that  way. 

He  allowed  Hermione  to  believe  that  he  agreed  with 
her  in  the  conception  she  had  formed  of  her  husband's 
character  and  of  her  husband's  love  for  her.  It  was 
difficult  for  him  to  do  this,  for  he  had  an  almost  cruel 
passion  for  truth,  and  generally  a  clear  insight  into  hu- 
man character.  Far  less  than  many  others  would  have 
condemned  did  he,  in  his  mind,  condemn  the  man  who 
was  dead  for  the  sin  against  love  that  he  had  committed. 
He  had  understood  Maurice  as  Hermione  had  not  under- 
stood him,  and  knowledge  is  full  of  pardon.  But  though 
he  could  pardon  easily  he  could  not  easily  pretend.  By 
pretending  he  sinned  against  himself,  and  helped  his 

52 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

friend  some  steps  along  the  way  to  peace.  He  thought 
he  had  helped  her  to  go  much  farther  along  that  way 
than  she  had  gone.  And  he  thought  that  Vere  had 
helped  her,  too. 

Now  the  hollow  mutterings  of  the  rock  in  Virgil's 
Grotto  seemed  to  be  in  his  heart,  as  he  realized  how 
permanent  was  the  storm  in  Hermione's  nature.  Some- 
thing for  her  he  had  done.  And  something — much  more, 
no  doubt — Vere  had  done.  But  how  little  it  all  was! 

Their  helplessness  gave  to  him  a  new  understanding  of 
woman. 

Hermione  had  allowed  him  great  privileges,  had 
allowed  him  to  protect  her,  had  taken  his  advice.  After 
Vere  was  born  she  had  wished  to  go  back  again  to  Sicily. 
The  house  of  the  priest,  where  she  had  been  so  happy, 
and  so  sad,  drew  her.  She  longed  for  it.  She  desired 
to  make  it  her  home.  He  had  fought  against  her  in  this 
matter,  and  had  been  aided  by  Gaspare. 

There  had  been  a  subtle  understanding,  never  ex- 
pressed, between  the  boy  and  him. 

Artois  had  played  upon  her  intellect,  had  appealed, 
too,  to  her  mother's  heart. 

He  had  not  urged  her  to  try  to  forget,  but  he  had 
urged  her  not  morbidly  to  remember,  not  to  cherish  and 
to  foster  the  memory  of  the  tragedy  which  had  broken 
her  life.  To  go  back  to  that  tiny  home,  solitary  in  its 
beautiful  situation,  in  the  changed  circumstances  which 
were  hers,  would  be,  he  told  her,  to  court  and  to  summon 
sorrow.  He  was  even  cruel  to  be  kind.  When  Her- 
mione combated  his  view,  assuring  him  that  to  her  Monte 
Amato  was  like  a  sacred  place,  a  place  hallowed  by 
memories  of  happiness,  he  recalled  the  despair  in  which 
that  happiness  had  ended.  With  all  the  force  at  his 
command,  and  it  was  great,  he  drew  the  picture  of  the 
life  that  would  be  in  comparison  with  the  life  that  had 
been.  And  he  told  her  finally  that  what  she  wished  to 

S3 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

do  was  morbid,  was  unworthy  of  her  strength  of  char- 
acter, was  even  wicked  now  that  she  was  a  mother.  He 
brought  before  her  mind  those  widows  who  make  a  cult 
of  their  dead.  Would  she  be  one  of  them  ?  Would  she 
steep  a  little  child  in  such  an  atmosphere  of  memories, 
casting  a  young  and  tender  mind  backward  into  a  cruel 
past  instead  of  leading  it  forward  into  a  joyous  present  ? 
Maurice  had  been  the  very  soul  of  happiness.  Vere  must 
be  linked  with  the  sunbeams.  With  his  utmost  subtlety 
Artois  described  and  traced  the  effect  upon  a  tiny  and 
sensitive  child  of  a  mother's  influence,  whether  for  good 
or  evil,  until  Hermione,  who  had  a  deep  reverence  for 
his  knowledge  of  all  phases  of  human  nature,  at  last, 
almost  in  despite  of  the  truth  within  her,  of  the  interior 
voice  which  said  to  her,  "With  you  and  Vere  it  would  not 
be  so,"  caught  alarm  from  his  apparent  alarm,  drew  dis- 
trust of  herself  from  his  apparent  distrust  of  her. 

Gaspare,  too,  played  his  part.  When  Hermione  spoke 
to  him  of  returning  to  the  priest's  house,  almost  wildly, 
and  with  the  hot  energy  that  bursts  so  readily  up  in 
Sicilians,  he  begged  her  not  to  go  back  to  the  maledetta 
casa  in  which  his  Padrone's  dead  body  had  lain.  As  he 
spoke  a  genuine  fear  of  the  cottage  came  upon  him.  All 
the  latent  superstition  that  dwells  in  the  contadino  was 
stirred  as  dust  by  a  wind.  In  clouds  it  flew  up  about 
his  mind.  Fear  looked  out  of  his  great  eyes.  Dread 
was  eloquent  in  his  gestures.  And  he,  too,  referred  to 
the  child,  to  the  povera  piccola  bambina.  It  would  cast 
ill-luck  on  the  child  to  bring  her  up  in  a  chamber  of 
death.  Her  saint  would  forsake  her.  She  too  would 
die.  The  boy  worked  himself  up  into  a  fever.  His  face 
was  white.  Drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead. 

He  had  set  out  to  be  deceptive — what  he  would  have 
called  un  poco  birbante,  and  he  had  even  deceived  him- 
self. He  knew  that  it  would  be  dangerous  for  his 
Padrona  to  live  again  near  Marechiaro.  Any  day  a 

54 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

chance  scrap  of  gossip  might  reach  her  ears.  In  time 
she  would  be  certain  almost  to  hear  something  of  the 
dead  Padrone's  close  acquaintance  with  the  dwellers  in 
the  Casa  delle  Sirene.  She  would  question  him,  perhaps. 
She  would  suspect  something.  She  would  inquire.  She 
would  search.  She  would  find  out  the  hideous  truth. 
It  was  this  fear  which  made  him  argue  on  the  same  side 
as  Artois.  But  in  doing  so  he  caught  another  fear  from 
his  own  words.  He  became  really  natural,  really  truth- 
ful in  his  fear.  And — she  scarcely  knew  why — Hermione 
was  even  more  governed  by  him  than  by  Artois.  He  had 
lived  with  them  in  the  Casa  del  Prete,  been  an  intimate 
part  of  their  life  there.  And  he  was  Sicilian  of  the  soil. 
The  boy  had  a  real  power  to  move,  to  dominate  her, 
which  he  did  not  then  suspect. 

Again  and  again  he  repeated  those  words,  "La  povera 
bambina — la  povera  piccola  bambina."  And  at  last  Her- 
mione was  overcome. 

"I  won't  go  to  Sicily,"  she  said  to  Artois.  "For  if  I 
went  there  I  could  only  go  to  Monte  Amato.  I  won't  go 
until  Vere  is  old  enough  to  wish  to  go,  to  wish  to  see  the 
house  where  her  father  and  I  were  happy." 

And  she  had  never  gone  back.  For  Artois  had  not 
been  satisfied  with  this  early  victory. 

In  returning  from  a  tour  in  North  Africa  the  following 
spring,  when  Vere  was  nearly  two  years  old,  he  had  paid 
a  visit  to  Marechiaro,  and,  while  there,  had  seen  the 
contadino  from  whom  Hermione  had  rented,  and  still 
rented,  the  house  of  the  priest.  The  man  was  middle- 
aged,  ignorant  but  shrewd,  and  very  greedy.  Artois 
made  friends  with  him,  and  casually,  over  a  glass  of 
moscato,  talked  about  his  affairs  and  the  land  question 
in  Sicily.  The  peasant  became  communicative  and,  of 
course,  loud  in  his  complaining.  His  land  yielded  noth- 
ing. The  price  of  almonds  had  gone  down.  The  lemon 
crop  had  been  ruined  by  the  storms.  As  to  the  vines — 

55 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

they  were  all  devoured  by  the  phylloxera,  and  he  had  no 
money  to  buy  and  plant  vines  from  America.  Artois 
hinted  that  he  received  a  good  rent  from  the  English 
lady  for  the  cottage  on  Monte  Amato.  The  contadino 
acknowledged  that  he  received  a  fair  price  for  the  cot- 
tage and  the  land  about  it;  but  the  house,  he  declared, 
would  go  to  rack  and  ruin  with  no  one  ever  in  it,  and 
the  land  was  lying  idle,  for  the  English  lady  would  have 
everything  left  exactly  as  it  had  been  when  she  lived 
there  with  her  husband.  Artois  seized  upon  this  hint 
of  what  was  in  the  peasant's  mind,  and  bemoaned  with 
him  his  situation.  The  house  ought  to  be  occupied,  the 
land  all  about  it,  up  to  the  very  door,  and  behind  upon 
the  sunny  mountain-side,  planted  with  American  vines. 
If  it  belonged  to  him  that  was  what  he  would  do — plant 
American  vines,  and  when  the  years  of  yielding  came, 
give  a  good  percentage  on  all  the  wine  made  and  sold  to 
the  man  who  had  tended  the  vineyard. 

The  peasant's  love  of  money  awoke.  He  only  let  the 
cottage  to  Hermione  year  by  year,  and  had  no  contract 
with  her  extending  beyond  a  twelve-months'  lease.  Be- 
fore Artois  left  Marechiaro  the  tender  treachery  was 
arranged.  When  the  year's  lease  was  up,  the  contadino 
wrote  to  her  declining  to  renew  it.  She  answered,  pro- 
testing, offering  more  money.  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 
The  man  replied  that  he  had  already  let  the  cottage  and 
the  land  around  it  to  a  grower  of  vines  for  a  long  term 
of  years,  and  that  he  was  getting  double  the  annual  price 
she  offered. 

Hermione  was  indignant  and  bitterly  distressed. 
When  this  letter  reached  her  she  was  at  Fiesole  with 
Vere  in  a  villa  which  she  had  taken.  She  would  proba- 
bly have  started  at  once  for  Sicily;  but  Vere  was  just 
then  ill  with  some  infantile  complaint,  and  could  not  be 
left.  Artois,  who  was  in  Rome,  and  had  received  from 
her  the  news  of  this  careiully  arranged  disaster,  offered 


A   SPIRIT  IN   PRISON 

to  go  to  Sicily  on  her  behalf — and  actually  went.  He 
returned  to  tell  her  that  the  house  of  the  priest  was 
already  occupied  by  contadini,  and  all  the  land  up  to 
the  very  door  in  process  of  being  dug  up  and  planted 
with  vines.  It  was  useless  to  make  any  further  offer. 
The  thing  was  done. 

Hermione  said  nothing,  but  Artois  saw  in  her  eyes 
how  keenly  she  was  suffering,  and  turned  his  own  eyes 
away.  He  was  only  trying  to  preserve  her  from  greater 
unhappiness,  the  agony  of  ever  rinding  out  the  truth; 
but  he  felt  guilty  at  that  moment,  and  as  if  he  had  been 
cruel  to  the  woman  who  roused  all  his  tenderness,  all  his 
protective  instinct. 

"I  shall  not  go  back  to  Marechiaro  now,"  Hermione 
said.  "I  shall  not  go  back  even  to  see  the  grave.  I 
could  never  feel  that  anything  of  his  spirit  lingered  there. 
But  I  did  feel,  I  should  have  felt  again,  as  if  something 
of  him  still  loved  that  little  house  on  the  mountain,  still 
stayed  among  the  oak-trees.  It  seemed  to  me  that  when 
I  took  Vere  to  the  Casa  del  Prete  she  would  have  learned 
to  know  something  of  her  father  there  that  she  could 
never  have  learned  to  know  in  another  place.  But 
now  —  no,  I  shall  not  go  back.  If  I  did  I  should 
even  lose  my  memories,  perhaps,  and  I  could  not  bear 
that." 

And  she  had  not  returned.  Gaspare  went  to  Mare- 
chiaro sometimes,  to  see  his  family  and  his  friends.  He 
visited  the  grave  and  saw  that  it  was  properly  kept. 
But  Hermione  remained  in  Italy.  For  some  time  she 
lived  near  Florence,  first  at  Fiesole,  later  at  Bellosguardo. 
When  the  summer  heat  came  she  took  a  villa  at  the 
Abetone.  Or  she  spent  some  months  with  Vere  beside 
the  sea.  As  the  girl  grew  older  she  developed  a  passion 
for  the  sea,  and  seemed  to  care  little  for  the  fascination 
of  the  pine  forests.  Hermione,  noting  this,  gave  up 
going  to  the  Abetone  and  took  a  house  by  the  sea  for  the 

57 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

whole  summer.  Two  years  they  were  at  Santa  Mar- 
gherita,  one  year  at  Sorrento. 

Then,  sailing  one  evening  on  the  sea  towards  Bagnoli, 
they  saw  the  house  on  the  islet  beyond  the  Pool  of  San 
Francesco.  Vere  was  enchanted  by  it. 

"To  live  in  it,"  she  exclaimed,  "would  be  almost  like 
living  in  the  sea!" 

Hermione,  too,  was  fascinated  by  its  situation,  the 
loneliness,  the  wildness,  yet  the  radiant  cheerfulness  of  it. 
She  made  inquiries,  found  that  it  was  owned  by  a  Nea- 
politan who  scarcely  ever  went  there,  and  eventually 
succeeded  in  getting  it  on  a  long  lease.  For  two  years 
now  she  and  Vere  had  spent  the  summer  there. 

Artois  had  noticed  that  since  Hermione  had  been  in  the 
Casa  del  Mare  an  old  desire  had  begun  to  revive  in  her. 
She  spoke  more  frequently  of  Sicily.  Often  she  stood 
on  the  rock  and  looked  across  the  sea,  and  he  knew  that 
she  was  thinking  of  those  beloved  coasts — of  the  Ionian 
waters,  of  the  blossoming  almond-trees  among  the  olives 
and  the  rocks,  of  the  scarlet  geraniums  glowing  among 
the  thorny  cactus,  of  the  giant  watercourses  lead- 
ing up  into  the  mountains.  A  hunger  was  awake  in 
her,  now  that  she  had  a  home  so  near  the  enchanted 
island. 

He  realized  it.  But  he  was  no  longer  much  afraid. 
So  many  years  had  passed  that  even  if  Hermione  re- 
visited Marechiaro  he  believed  there  would  be  little  or 
no  danger  now  of  her  ever  learning  the  truth.  It  had 
never  been  known  in  the  village,  and  if  it  had  been 
supsected,  all  the  suspicions  must  have  long  ago  died 
down.  He  had  been  successful  in  his  protection.  He 
was  thankful  for  that.  It  was  the  one  thing  he  had  been 
able  to  do  for  the  friend  who  had  done  so  much  for 
him. 

The  tragedy  had  occurred  because  of  him.  Because 
of  him  all  knowledge  of  it  had  been  kept  from  Hermione, 

58 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  would  now  be  kept  from  her  forever — because  oi 
him  and  Gaspare. 

This  he  had  been  able  to  do.  But  how  powerless  he 
was,  and  how  powerless  was  Vere! 

Now  he  looked  vaguely  at  the  villas  of  Posilipo,  and 
he  realized  this  thoroughly. 

Something  for  her  he  had  done,  and  something  Vere 
had  done.  But  how  little  it  all  was! 

To-day  a  new  light  had  been  thrown  upon  Hermione, 
and  he  realized  what  she  was  as  he  had  never  realized 
it  before.  No,  she  was  right.  She  could  never  live  fully 
in  a  girl  child — she  was  not  made  to  do  that.  Why  had 
he  ever  thought,  hoped  that  perhaps  it  might  be  so,  that 
perhaps  Vere  might  some  day  completely  and  happily 
fill  her  life  ?  Long  ago  he  had  encouraged  her  to  work, 
to  write.  Misled  by  her  keen  intelligence,  her  enthusi- 
asm, her  sincerity  and  vitality,  by  the  passion  that  was 
in  her,  the  great  heart,  the  power  of  feeling,  the  power 
of  criticising  and  inspiring  another  which  she  had  freely 
shown  to  him,  Artois  had  believed — as  he  had  once  said 
to  her  in  London — that  she  might  be  an  artist,  but  that 
she  preferred  to  be  simply  a  woman.  But  he  found  it 
was  not  so.  Hermione  had  not  the  peculiar  gift  of  the 
writer.  She  could  feel,  but  she  could  not  arrange.  She 
could  discern,  but  she  could  not  expose.  A  flood  of 
words  came  to  her,  but  not  the  inevitable  word.  She 
could  not  take  that  exquisite  leap  from  the  known  into 
the  unknown  which  genius  can  take  with  the  certainty 
of  alighting  on  firm  ground.  In  short,  she  was  not 
formed  and  endowed  to  be  an  artist.  About  such  mat- 
ters Artois  knew  only  how  to  be  sincere.  He  was  sincere 
with  his  friend,  and  she  thanked  him  for  being  so. 

One  possible  life  was  taken  from  Hermione,  the  life  of 
the  artist  who  lives  in  the  life  of  the  work. 

There  remained  the  life  in  Vere. 

To-day  Artois  knew  from  Hermior  '  own  lips  that 
*  59 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

she  could  not  live  completely  in  her  child,  and  he  felt 
that  he  had  been  blind  as  men  are  often  blind  about 
women,  are  blind  because  they  are  secretly  selfish.  The 
man  lives  for  himself,  but  he  thinks  it  natural,  even  dis- 
tinctively womanly,  that  women  should  live  for  others — 
for  him,  for  some  other  man,  for  their  children.  What 
man  finds  his  life  in  his  child?  But  the  woman — she 
surely  ought  to,  and  without  difficulty.  Hermione  had 
been  sincere  to-day,  and  Artois  knew  his  blindness,  and 
knew  his  secret  selfishness. 

The  gray  was  lifting  a  little  over  Naples,  the  distant 
shadowy  form  of  Vesuvius  was  becoming  clearer,  more 
firm  in  outline.  But  the  boatman  rowed  slowly,  in- 
fluenced by  the  scirocco. 

How,  then,  was  Hermione  to  live?  How  was  she  to 
find  happiness  or  peace?  It  was  a  problem  which  he 
debated  with  an  ardor  that  had  in  it  something  of  pas- 
sion. And  he  began  to  wonder  how  it  would  have  been 
if  he  had  acted  differently,  if  he  had  allowed  her  to  find 
out  what  he  suspected  to  be  the  exact  truth  of  the  dead 
man.  Long  ago  he  had  saved  her  from  suffering.  But 
by  doing  so  had  he  not  dedicated  her,  not  to  a  greater, 
but  to  a  longer  suffering  ?  He  might  have  defiled  a  beau- 
tiful memory.  He  must  have  done  so  had  he  acted 
differently.  But  if  he  had  defiled  it,  might  not  Hermione 
have  been  the  subject  of  a  great  revulsion  ?  Horror  can 
kill,  but  it  can  also  cure.  It  can  surely  root  out  love. 
But  from  such  a  heart  as  Hermione 's? 

Despite  all  his  understanding  of  women,  Artois  felt 
at  a  loss  to-day.  H  .  could  not  make  up  his  mind  what 
would  have  been  the  effect  upon  Hermione  if  she  had 
learned  that  her  hutband  had  betrayed  her. 

Presently  he  left  that  subject  and  came  to  Vere. 

When  he  did  this  he  was  conscious  at  once  of  a  change 
within  him.  His  tenderness  and  pity  for  Hermione  were 
replaced  by  anothei  tenderness  and  pity.  And  these 

60 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

were  wholly  for  Vere.  Hermione  was  suffering  because 
of  Maurice.  But  Vere  was  surely  suffering,  subcon- 
sciously, because  of  Hermione. 

There  were  two  links  in  the  chain  of  suffering,  that 
between  Maurice  and  Hermione,  and  that  between  Her- 
mione and  Vere. 

For  a  moment  he  felt  as  if  Vere  were  bereaved,  were 
motherless.  The  sensation  passed  directly  he  realized 
the  exaggeration  in  his  mind.  But  he  still  felt  as  if  the 
girl  were  deprived  of  something  which  she  ought  to 
possess,  which,  till  now,  he  had  thought  she  did  possess. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Vere  stood  quite  outside  of  her 
mother's  life,  instead  of  in  it,  in  its  centre,  its  core;  and 
he  pitied  the  child,  almost  as  he  pitied  other  children 
from  time  to  time,  children  to  whom  their  parents  were 
indifferent.  And  yet  Hermione  loved  Vere,  and  Vere 
could  not  know  what  he  had  only  known  completely  to- 
day— that  the  mother  often  felt  lonely  with  the  child. 

Vere  did  not  know  that,  but  surely  some  day  she 
would  find  it  out. 

Artois  knew  her  character  well,  knew  that  she  was 
very  sensitive,  very  passionate,  quick  to  feel  and  quick 
to  understand.  He  discovered  in  her  qualities  inherited 
both  from  her  father  and  her  mother,  attributes  both 
English  and  Sicilian.  In  appearance  she  resembled  her 
father.  She  had  "thrown  back"  to  the  Sicilian  ancestor, 
as  he  had.  She  had  the  Southern  eyes,  the  Southern 
grace,  the  Southern  vivacity  and  warmth  that  had  made 
him  so  attractive.  But  Artois  divined  a  certain  stub- 
bornness in  Vere  that  had  been  lacking  in  the  dead  man, 
a  stubbornness  that  took  its  rise  not  in  stupidity  but  in 
a  secret  consciousness  of  force. 

Vere,  Artois  thought,  might  be  violent,  but  would 
not  be  fickle.  She  had  a  loyalty  in  her  that  "vras  Sicilian 
in  its  fervor,  a  sense  of  gratitude  such  as  the  contadini 
have,  although  by  many  it  is  denied  to  them;  a  quick 

61 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  lively  temper,  but  a  disposition  that  responded  to 
joy,  to  brightness,  to  gayety,  to  sunlight,  with  a  swift- 
ness, almost  a  fierceness,  that  was  entirely  un-English. 

Her  father  had  been  the  dancing  Faun.  She  had  not, 
could  never  have  his  gift  of  thoughtlessness.  For  she 
had  intellect,  derived  from  Hermione,  and  an  odd  truth- 
fulness that  was  certainly  not  Sicilian.  Often  there  were 
what  Artois  called  "Northern  Lights"  in  her  sincerity. 
The  strains  in  her,  united,  made,  he  thought,  a  fascinat- 
ing blend.  But  as  yet  she  was  undeveloped — an  inter- 
esting, a  charming  child,  but  only  a  child.  In  many 
ways  she  was  young  for  her  age.  Highly  intelligent,  she 
was  anything  rather  than  "knowing."  Her  innocence 
was  like  clear  water  in  a  spring.  The  graciousness  of 
youth  was  hers  to  the  full. 

As  Artois  thought  of  it  he  was  conscious,  as  of  a  new 
thing,  of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  such  innocent  youth. 

It  was  horrible  to  connect  it  with  suffering.  And  yet 
that  link  in  the  chain  did  exist.  Vere  had  not  something 
that  surely  she  ought  to  have,  and,  without  consciously 
missing  it,  she  must  sometimes  subtly,  perhaps  vaguely, 
be  aware  that  there  was  a  lack  in  her  life.  Her  mother 
gave  her  great  love  But  she  was  not  to  her  mother 
what  a  son  would  have  been.  And  the  love  that  is 
mingled  with  regret  has  surely  something  shadowy  in  it. 

Maurice  Delarey  had  been  as  the  embodiment  of  joy. 
It  was  strange  that  from  the  fount  of  joy  sorrow  was 
thrown  up.  But  so  it  was.  From  him  sorrow  had 
come.  From  him  sorrow  might  still  come,  even  for 
Vere. 

In  the  white  and  silent  day  Artois  again  felt  the  stir- 
ring of  intuition,  as  he  had  felt  it  long  ago.  But  now  he 
roused  himself,  and  resolutely,  almost  angrily,  detached 
his  mind  from  its  excursions  towards  the  future. 

"Do  you  often  think  of  to-morrow?"  he  suddenly  said 
to  the  boatman,  breaking  from  his  silence. 

62 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Signore?" 

"Do  you  often  wonder  what  is  going  to  happen  to- 
morrow, what  you  will  do,  whether  you  will  be  happy 
or  sad?" 

The  man  threw  up  his  head. 

"No,  Signore.  Whatever  comes  is  destiny.  If  I  have 
food  to-day  it  is  enough  for  me.  Why  should  I  bother 
about  to-morrow's  maccheroni?" 

Artois  smiled.  The  boat  was  close  in  now  to  the 
platform  of  stone  that  projected  beneath  the  wall  of  the 
Marina. 

As  he  stepped  out  he  gave  the  boatman  a  generous 
buonamano. 

"You  are  quite  right,  comrade,"  he  said.  "It  is  the 
greatest  mistake  in  the  world  to  bother  about  to-mor- 
row's maccheroni." 


CHAPTER  V 

THREE  days  after  Artois'  conversation  with  Hermione 
in  the  Grotto  of  Virgil  the  Marchesino  Isidore  Panacci 
came  smiling  into  his  friend's  apartments  in  the  Hotel 
Royal  des  Etrangers.  ,  He  was  smartly  dressed  in  the 
palest  possible  shade  of  gray,  with  a  bright  pink  tie,  pink 
socks,  brown  shoes  of  the  rather  boat-like  shape  affected 
by  many  young  Neopolitans,  and  a  round  straw  hat, 
with  a  small  brim,  that  was  set  slightly  on  the  side  of 
his  curly  head.  In  his  mouth  was  a  cigarette,  and  in 
his  buttonhole  a  pink  carnation.  He  took  Artois'  hand 
with  his  left  hand,  squeezed  it  affectionately,  mur- 
mured "Caro  Emilio,"  and  sat  down  in  an  easy  atti- 
tude on  the  sofa,  putting  his  hat  and  stick  on  a  table 
near  by. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  he  had  come  for  no  special 
reason.  He  had  just  dropped  in,  as  he  did  whenever  he 
felt  inclined,  to  gossip  with  "Caro  Emilio,"  and  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  possibly  he  might  be  interrupting 
an  important  piece  of  work.  The  Marechesino  could  not 
realize  work.  He  knew  his  friend  published  books.  He 
even  saw  him  sometimes  actually  engaged  in  writing 
them,  pen  in  hand.  But  he  was  sure  anybody  would  far 
rather  sit  and  chatter  with  him,  or  hear  him  play  a  valse 
on  the  piano,  or  a  bit  of  the  "Boheine,"  than  bend  over 
a  table  all  by  himself.  And  Artois  always  welcomed 
him.  He  liked  him.  But  it  was  not  only  that  which 
made  him  complaisant.  Doro  was  a  type,  and  a  singu- 
larly perfect  one. 

64 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Now  Artois  laid  down  his  pen,  and  pulled  forward  an 
arm-chair  opposite  to  the  sofa. 

"Mon  Dieu,  Doro!  How  fresh  you  look,  like  a  fish 
just  pulled  out  of  the  sea!" 

The  Marchesino  showed  his  teeth  in  a  smile  which  also 
shone  in  his  round  and  boyish  eyes. 

"I  have  just  come  out  of  the  sea.  Papa  and  I  have 
been  bathing  at  the  Eldorado.  We  swam  round  the 
Castello  until  we  were  opposite  your  windows,  and  sang 
'Funiculi,  funicula!'  in  the  water,  to  serenade  you. 
Why  didn't  you  hear  us?  Papa  has  a  splendid  voice, 
almost  like  Tamagno's  in  the  gramophone,  when  he 
sings  the  'Addio'  from  'Otello.'  Of  course  we  kept 
a  little  out  at  sea.  Papa  is  so  easily  recognized  by 
his  red  mustaches.  But  still  you  might  have  heard 
us." 

"I  did." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  come  unto  the  balcony,  amico 
mio?" 

"Because  I  thought  you  were  street  singers." 

"Davvero?  Papa  would  be  angry.  And  he  is  in  a 
bad  temper  to-day  anyhow." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  believe  Gilda  Mai  is  going  to  bring  a  causa 
against  Viviano.  Of  course  he  won't  marry  her,  and 
she  never  expected  he  could.  Why,  she  used  to  be  a 
milliner  in  the  Toledo.  I  remember  it  perfectly,  and 
now  Sigismondo —  But  it's  really  Gilda  that  has  made 
papa  angry.  You  see,  he  has  paid  twice  for  me,  once 
four  thousand  lire,  and  the  other  time  three  thousand 
five  hundred.  And  then  he  has  lost  a  lot  at  Lotto  lately. 
He  has  no  luck.  And  then  he,  too,  was  in  a  row  yester- 
day evening." 

"The  Marchese?" 

"Yes,  in  the  Chiaia.  He  slapped  Signora  Merani's 
face  twice  before  every  one." 

65 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Diavolo!     What!  a  lady?" 

"Well,  if  you  like  to  call  her  so,"  returned  Doro, 
negligently.  "Her  husband  is  an  impiegato  of  the  Post- 
office,  or  something  of  the  kind." 

"But  why  should  the  Marchese  slap  her  face  in  the 
Chiaia?" 

"Because  she  provoked  him.  They  took  a  flat  in  the 
house  my  father  owns  in  the  Strada  Chiatamone.  After 
a  time  they  got  behind  with  the  rent.  He  let  them  stay 
on  for  six  months  without  paying,  and  then  he  turned 
them  out.  What  should  he  do?"  Doro  began  to  ges- 
ticulate. He  held  his  right  hand  up  on  a  level  with  his 
face,  with  the  fingers  all  drawn  together  and  pressed 
against  the  thumb,  and  moved  it  violently  backwards 
and  forwards,  bringing  it  close  to  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  then  throwing  it  out  towards  Artois.  "  What  else, 
I  say?  Was  he  to  give  his  beautiful  rooms  to  them 
for  nothing?  And  she  with  a  face  like  —  have  you,  I 
ask  you,  Emilio,  have  you  seen  her  teeth?" 

"  I  have  never  seen  the  Signora  in  my  life!" 

"You  have  never  seen  her  teeth?  Dio  mio!"  He 
opened  his  two  hands,  and,  lifting  his  arms,  shook  them 
loosely  above  his  head,  shutting  his  eyes  for  an  instant 
as  if  to  ward  off  some  dreadful  vision.  "They  are  like 
the  keys  of  a  piano  from  Bordicelli's!  Basta!"  He 
dropped  his  hands  and  opened  his  eyes.  "Yesterday 
papa  was  walking  in  the  Chiaia.  He  met  Signori  Merani, 
and  she  began  to  abuse  him.  She  had  a  red  parasol. 
She  shook  it  at  him!  She  called  him  vigliacco — papa, 
a  Panacci,  dei  Duchi  di  Vedrano!  The  parasol — it  was 
a  bright  red,  it  infuriated  papa.  He  told  the  Signora  to 
stop.  She  knows  his  temper.  Every  one  in  Naples 
knows  our  tempers,  every  one!  I,  Viviano,  even  Sigis- 
mondo,  we  are  all  the  same,  we  are  all  exactly  like  papa. 
If  we  are  insulted  we  cannot  control  ourselves.  You 
know  it,  Emilio!" 

66 


A  SPIRIT  IN   PRISON 

i 

"I  am  perfectly  certain  of  it,"  said  Artois.  "I  am 
positive  you  none  of  you  can." 

"It  does  not  matter  whether  it  is  a  man  or  a  woman. 
We  must  do  something  with  our  hands.  We  have  got 
to.  Papa  told  the  Signora  he  should  strike  her  at  once 
unless  she  put  down  the  red  parasol  and  was  silent. 
What  did  she  do,  the  imbecile?  She  stuck  out  her  face 
like  this," — he  thrust  his  face  forward  with  the  right 
cheek  turned  towards  Artois — "and  said,  'Strike  me! 
strike  me!'  Papa  obeyed  her.  Poom!  poom!  He  gave 
her  a  smack  on  each  cheek  before  every  one.  'You  want 
education!'  he  said  to  her.  'And  I  shall  give  it  you.' 
And  now  she  may  bring  a  processo  too.  But  did  you 
really  think  we  were  street  singers?"  He  threw  himself 
back,  took  the  cigarette  from  his  mouth,  and  laughed. 
Then  he  caught  hold  of  his  blond  mustache  with  both 
hands,  gave  it  an  upward  twist,  at  the  same  time  pouting 
his  big  lips,  and  added: 

"We  shall  bring  a  causa  against  you  for  that!" 

"No,  Doro,  you  and  I  must  never  quarrel.  By  the 
way,  though,  I  want  to  see  you  angry.  Every  one  talks 
of  the  Panacci  temper,  but  when  I  am  with  you  I  always- 
see  you  smiling  or  laughing.  As  to  the  Marchese,  he  is 
as  lively  as  a  boy.  Viviano — " 

"Oh,  Viviano  is  a  buffone.  Have  you  ever  seen  him 
imitate  a  monkey  from  whom  another  monkey  has 
snatched  a  nut?" 

"No." 

"It  is  like  this—" 

With  extraordinary  suddenness  he  distorted  his  whole 
face  into  the  likeness  of  an  angry  ape,  hunching  his 
shoulders  and  uttering  fierce  simian  cries. 

"No,  I  can't  do  it." 

With  equal  suddenness  and  self-possession  he  became 
his  smiling  self  again. 

"Viviano  has  studied  in  the  monkey-house.     And  the 

67 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

monk  looking  the  other  way  when  he  passes  along  the 
Marina  where  the  women  are  bathing  in  the  summer! 
He  shall  do  that  for  you  on  Sunday  afternoon  when  you 
come  to  Capodimonte.  It  makes  even  mamma  die  of 
laughing,  and  you  know  how  religious  she  is.  But  then, 
of  course,  men — that  does  not  matter.  Religion  is  for 
women,  and  they  understand  that  quite  well." 

The  Marchesino  never  made  any  pretence  of  piety. 
One  virtue  he  had  in  the  fullest  abundance.  He  was 
perfectly  sincere  with  those  whom  he  considered  his 
friends.  That  there  could  be  any  need  for  hypocrisy 
never  occurred  to  him. 

"Mamma  would  hate  it  if  we  were  saints,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  am  sure  the  Marchesa  can  be  under  no  apprehension 
on  that  score,"  said  Artois. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  returned  the  Marchesino,  quite 
seriously. 

He  had  a  sense  of  humor,  but  it  did  not  always  serve 
him.  Occasionally  it  was  fitful,  and  when  summoned 
by  irony  remained  at  a  distance. 

"It  is  true,  Emilio,  you  have  never  seen  me  angry," 
he  continued,  reverting  to  the  remark  of  Artois;  "you 
ought  to.  Till  you  have  seen  a  Panacci  angry  you  do 
not  really  know  him.  With  you,  of  course,  I  could  never 
be  angry — never,  never.  You  are  my  friend,  my  com- 
rade. To  you  I  tell  everything." 

A  sudden  remembrance  seemed  to  come  to  him. 
Evidently  a  new  thought  had  started  into  his  active 
mind,  for  his  face  suddenly  changed,  and  became  serious, 
even  sentimental. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Artois. 

"To-day,  just  now  in  the  sea,  I  have  seen  a  girl — 
Madonna!  Emilio,  she  had  a  little  nose  that  was  per- 
fect— perfect.  How  she  was  simpatica!  What  a  beau- 
tiful girl!" 

68 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

His  whole  face  assumed  a  melting  expression,  and  he 
pursed  his  lips  in  the  form  of  a  kiss. 

"She  was  in  the  sea,  too?"  asked  Artois. 

"No.  If  she  had  been!  But  I  was  with  papa.  It 
was  just  after  we  had  been  serenading  you.  She  had 
heard  us,  I  am  sure,  for  she  was  laughing.  I  dived  under 
the  boat  in  which  she  was.  I  did  all  my  tricks  for  her.' 
I  did  the  mermaid  and  the  seal.  She  was  delighted. 
She  never  took  her  eyes  from  me.  As  to  papa — she 
never  glanced  at  him.  Poor  papa!  He  was  angry. 
She  had  her  mother  with  her,  I  think — a  Signora,  tall, 
flat,  ugly,  but  she  was  simpatica,  too.  She  had  nice 
eyes,  and  when  I  did  the  seal  she  could  not  help  laugh- 
ing, though  I  think  she  was  rather  sad." 

"What  sort  of  boat  were  they  in?"  Artois  asked,  with 
sudden  interest. 

"A  white  boat  with  a  green  line." 

"And  they  were  coming  from  the  direction  of  Posi- 
lipo?" 

"Ma  si!  Emilio,  do  you  know  them?  Do  you  know 
the  perfect  little  nose?" 

The  Marchesino  laid  one  hand  eagerly  on  the  arm  of 
his  friend. 

"I  believe  you  do!  I  am  sure  of  it!  The  mother — 
she  is  flat  as  a  Carabiniere,  and  quite  old,  but  with  nice 
eyes,  sympathetic,  intelligent.  And  the  girl  is  a  little 
brown — from  the  sun — with  eyes  full  of  fun  and  fire, 
dark  eyes.  She  may  be  Italian,  and  yet — there  is  some- 
thing English,  too.  But  she  is  not  blonde,  she  is  not 
cold.  And  when  she  laughs!  Her  teeth  are  not  like 
the  keys  of  a  piano  from  Bordicelli's.  And  she  is  full 
of  passion,  of  flame,  of  sentiment,  as  I  am.  And  she  is 
young,  perhaps  sixteen.  Do  you  know  her?  Present 
me,  Emilio!  I  have  presented  you  to  all  my  friends." 

"Mio  caro,  you  have  made  me  your  debtor  for  life." 

"It  isn't  true!" 

69 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Indeed  it  is  time.  But  I  do  not  know  who  these 
ladies  are.  They  may  be  Italians.  They  may  be 
tourists.  Perhaps  to-morrow  they  will  have  left  Naples. 
Or  they  may  come  from  Sorrento,  Capri.  How  can  I 
tell  who  they  are?" 

The  Marchesino  suddenly  changed.  His  ardor  van- 
ished. His  gesticulating  hands  fell  to  his  sides.  His 
expressive  face  grew  melancholy. 

"Of  course.  How  can  you  tell?  Directly  I  was  out 
of  the  sea  and  dressed,  I  went  to  Santa  Lucia.  I  ex- 
amined every  boat,  but  the  white  boat  with  the  green 
line  was  not  there,  Basta!" 

He  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  and  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said: 

"Emilio  caro,  will  you  come  out  with  me  to-night?" 

"With  pleasure." 

"In  the  boat.  There  will  be  a  moon.  We  will  dine 
at  the  Antico  Giuseppone." 

"So  far  off  as  that?"  Artois  said,  rather  abruptly. 

"Why  not?  To-day  I  hate  the  town.  I  want  tran- 
quillity. At  the  Antico  Giuseppone  there  will  be  scarcely 
any  one.  It  is  early  in  the  season.  And  afterwards  we 
will  fish  for  sarde,  or  saraglie.  Take  me  away  from 
Naples,  Emilio;  take  me  away!  For  to-night,  if  I  stay 
• — well,  I  feel  that  I  shall  not  be  santo." 

Artois  burst  into  his  big  roaring  laugh. 

"And  why  do  you  want  to  be  santo  to-night?"  he 
asked. 

"The  beautiful  girl!  I  wish  to  keep  her  memory,  if 
only  for  one  night." 

"Very  well,  then.  We  will  fish,  and  you  shall  be  a 
saint." 

"Caro  Emilio!  Perhaps  Viviano  will  come,  too.  But 
I  think  he  will  be  with  Lidia.  She  is  singing  to-night 
at  the  Teatro  Nuovo.  Be  ready  at  half-past  seven.  I 
will  call  for  you.  And  now  I  shall  leave  you." 

70 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

He  got  up,  went  over  to  a  mirror,  carefully  arranged 
his  tie,  and  put  on  his  straw  hat  at  exactly  the  most 
impudent  angle. 

"I  shall  leave  you  to  write  your  book  while  I  meet 
papa  at  the  villa.  Do  you  know  why  papa  is  so  careful 
to  be  always  at  the  villa  at  four  o'clock  just  now?" 

"No!" 

"Nor  does  mamma!  If  she  did!  Povera  mamma! 
But  she  can  always  go  to  Mass.  A  rivederci,  Emilio." 

He  moved  his  hat  a  little  more  to  one  side  and  went 
out,  swinging  his  walking-stick  gently  to  and  fro  in  a 
manner  that  was  pensive  and  almost  sentimental. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  Marchesino  Panacci  was  generally  very  sincere 
with  his  friends,  and  the  boyish  expression  in  his  eyes 
was  not  altogether  deceptive,  for  despite  his  wide  knowl- 
edge of  certain  aspects  of  life,  not  wholly  admirable, 
there  was  really  something  of  the  simplicity  of  a  child — 
of  a  child  that  could  be  very  naughty — in  his  disposition. 
But  if  he  could  be  naive  he  could  also  be  mischievous 
and  even  subtle,  and  he  was  very  swift  in  grasping  a 
situation,  very  sharp  in  reading  character,  very  cunning 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  pleasure,  very  adroit  in  deception, 
if  he  thought  that  publicity  of  pursuit  would  be  likely 
to  lead  to  the  frustration  of  his  purpose. 

He  had  seen  at  once  that  Artois  either  knew,  or  sus- 
pected, who  were  the  occupants  of  the  white  boat  with 
the  green  line;  and  he  had  also  seen  that,  influenced 
perhaps  by  one  of  those  second  thoughts  which  lead 
men  into  caution,  Artois  desired  to  conceal  his  knowl- 
edge, or  suspicion.  Instantly  the  Marchesino  had,  there- 
fore, dropped  the  subject,  and  as  instantly  he  had 
devised  a  little  plan  to  clear  the  matter  up. 

The  Marchesino  knew  that  when  Artois  had  arrived 
in  Naples  he  had  had  no  friends  in  the  town  or  neighbor- 
hood. But  he  also  knew  that  recently  an  Englishwoman, 
an  old  friend  of  the  novelist,  had  come  upon  the  scene, 
that  she  was  living  somewhere  not  far  off,  and  that 
Artois  had  been  to  visit  her  once  or  twice  by  sea.  Artois 
had  spoken  of  her  very  casually,  and  the  Marchesino's 
interest  in  her  had  not  been  awakened.  He  was  not  an 

72 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

inquisitive  man  by  nature,  and  was  always  very  busy 
with  his  own  pursuit  of  pleasure.  But  he  remembered 
now  that  once  he  had  seen  his  friend  being  rowed  in  the 
direction  of  Posilipo,  and  that  in  the  evening  of  the 
same  day  Artois  had  mentioned  having  been  to  visit  his 
English  friend.  This  fact  had  suggested  to  the  Marche- 
sino  that  if  his  suspicion  were  correct,  and  the  ladies  in 
the  white  boat  with  the  green  line  were  this  English 
friend  and  a  daughter,  they  probably  lived  in  some  villa 
as  easily  reached  by  sea  as  by  land.  Such  villas  are  more 
numerous  towards  the  point  of  the  Capo  di  Posilipo  than 
nearer  Naples,  as  the  high  road,  after  the  Mergellina, 
mounts  the  hill  and  diverges  farther  and  farther  from 
the  sea.  The  Antico  Giuseppone  is  a  small  waterside 
ristorante  at  the  point  of  the  Capo  di  Posilipo,  a  little 
below  the  Villa  Rosebery. 

The  Marchesino's  suggestion  of  a  dinner  there  that 
evening  had  been  prompted  by  the  desire  to  draw  his 
friend  into  the  neighborhood  which  he  suspected  to  be 
the  neighborhood  of  his  charmer  of  the  sea.  Once  there 
he  might  either  find  some  pretext  for  making  her  ac- 
quaintance through  Artois — if  Artois  did  know  her — or, 
if  that  were  impossible,  he  might  at  least  find  out  where 
she  lived.  By  the  manner  of  Artois  when  the  Antico 
Giuseppone  was  mentioned,  he  knew  at  once  that  he  was 
playing  his  cards  well.  The  occupants  of  the  white  boat 
were  known  to  the  novelist.  They  did  live  somewhere 
near  the  Antico  Giuseppone.  And  certainly  Artois  had 
no  desire  to  bring  about  his — the  Marchesino's — ac- 
quaintance with  them. 

That  this  was  so,  neither  surprised  nor  seriously  vexed 
the  Marchesino.  He  knew  a  good  deal  of  his  friend's 
character,  knew  that  Artois,  despite  his  geniality  and 
friendliness,  was  often  reserved — even  with  him.  Dur- 
ing their  short  intimacy  he  had  certainly  told  Artois  a 
great  deal  more  about  his  affairs  with  women  than  had 

73 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

been  told  to  him  in  return.  This  fact  was  borne  in  upon 
him  now.  But  he  did  not  feel  angry.  A  careless  good- 
nature was  an  essential  part  of  his  character.  He  did 
not  feel  angry  at  his  friend's  secrecy,  but  he  did  feel 
mischievous.  His  lively  desire  to  know  the  girl  with 
"the  perfect  little  nose  "  was  backed  up  now  by  another 
desire — to  teach  "Caro  Emilio"  that  it  was  better  to 
meet  complete  frankness  with  complete  frankness. 

He  had  strolled  out  of  his  friend's  room  pensively, 
acting  the  melancholy  youth  who  had  lost  all  hope  of 
succeeding  in  his  desire ;  but  directly  the  door  was  shut 
his  manner  changed.  Disregarding  the  lift,  he  ran 
lightly  down  the  stairs,  made  his  way  swiftly  by  the 
revolving  door  into  the  street,  crossed  it,  and  walked 
towards  the  harbor  of  Santa  Lucia,  where  quantities  of 
pleasure-boats  lie  waiting  for  hire,  and  the  boatmen  are 
gathered  in  knots  smoking  and  gossiping,  or  are  strolling 
singly  up  and  down  near  the  water's  edge,  keeping  a 
sharp  look-out  for  possible  customers. 

As  the  Marchesino  turned  on  to  the  bridge  that  leads 
towards  Castel  dell'  Ovo  one  of  these  boatmen  met  him 
and  saluted  him. 

"Good-day,  Giuseppe,"  said  the  Marchesino,  address- 
ing him  familiarly  with  a  broad  Neapolitan  accent. 

"Good-day,  Signorino  Marchesino,"  replied  the  man. 
"Do  you  want  a  boat  ?  I  will  take  you  for — " 

The  Marchesino  drew  out  his  cigarette  case. 

"I  don't  want  a  boat.  But  perhaps  you  can  tell  me 
something." 

"What  is  it,  Signorino  Marchesino?"  said  the  man, 
looking  eagerly  at  the  cigarette  case  which  was  now  open, 
and  which  displayed  two  tempting  rows  of  fat  Egyptian 
cigarettes  reposing  side  by  side. 

"Do  you  know  a  boat — white  with  a  green  line— 
which  sometimes  comes  into  the  harbor  from  the  di- 
rection of  Posilipo  ?  It  was  here  this  afternoon,  or  it 

74 


passed  here.  I  don't  know  whether  it  went  on  to  the 
Arsenal." 

"White  with  a  green  line?"  said  the  man.  "That 
might  be — who  was  there  in  it,  Signorino  Marchesino?" 

"Two  ladies,  one  old  and  one  very  young.  The  young 
lady—" 

"Those  must  be  the  ladies  from  the  island,"  inter- 
rupted the  man.  "The  English  ladies  who  come  in  the 
summer  to  the  Casa  del  Mare  as  they  call  it,  on  the 
island  close  to  the  Grotto  of  Virgilio  by  San  Francesco's 
Pool.  They  were  here  this  afternoon,  but  they're  gone 
back.  Their  boat  is  white  with  a  green  line,  Signorino 
Marchesino." 

"Grazie,  Giuseppe,"  said  the  Marchesino,  with  an 
immovable  countenance.  "Do  you  smoke  cigarettes?" 

"Signorino  Marchesino,  I  do  when  I  have  any  soldi  to 
buy  them  with." 

"Take  these." 

The  Marchesino  emptied  one  side  of  his  cigarette  case 
into  the  boatman's  hand,  called  a  hired  carriage,  and 
drove  off  towards  the  Villa — the  horse  going  at  a  frantic 
trot,  while  the  coachman,  holding  a  rein  in  each  hand, 
ejaculated,  "A — ah!"  every  ten  seconds,  in  a  voice  that 
was  fiercely  hortatory. 

Artois,  from  his  window,  saw  the  carriage  rattle  past, 
and  saw  his  friend  leaning  back  in  it,  with  alert  eyes,  to 
scan  every  woman  passing  by.  He  stood  on  the  balcony 
for  a  moment  till  the  noise  of  the  wheels  on  the  stone 
pavement  died  away.  When  he  returned  to  his  writing- 
table  the  mood  for  work  was  gone.  He  sat  down  in  his 
chair.  He  took  up  his  pen.  But  he  found  himself  think- 
ing of  two  people,  the  extraordinary  difference  between 
whom  was  the  cause  of  his  now  linking  them  together  in 
his  mind.  He  found  himself  thinking  of  the  Marchesino 
and  of  Vere. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  the  identity  of  the 
6  75 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

two  women  in  the  white  boat.  They  were  Hermione 
and  Vere.  The  Marchesino  had  read  him  rightly,  but 
Artois  was  not  aware  of  it.  His  friend  had  deceived 
him,  as  almost  any  sharp-witted  Neapolitan  can  deceive 
even  a  clever  forestiere.  Certainly  he  did  not  particu- 
larly wish  to  introduce  his  friend  to  Vere.  Yet  now  he 
was  thinking  of  the  two  in  connection,  and  not  without 
amusement.  What  would  they  be  like  together  ?  How 
would  Vere's  divine  innocence  receive  the  amiable  seduc- 
tions of  the  Marchesino  ?  Artois,  in  fancy,  could  see  his 
friend  Doro  for  once  completely  disarmed  by  a  child. 
Vere's  innocence  did  not  spring  from  folly,  but  was 
backed  up  by  excellent  brains.  It  was  that  fact  which 
made  it  so  beautiful.  The  innocence  and  the  brains  to- 
gether might  well  read  Doro  a  pretty  little  lesson.  And 
Vere  after  the  lesson — would  she  be  changed?  Would 
she  lose  by  giving,  even  if  the  gift  were  a  lesson  ? 

Artois  had  certainly  felt  that  his  instinct  told  him  not 
to  do  what  Doro  wanted.  He  had  been  moved,  he  sup- 
posed now,  by  a  protective  sentiment.  Vere  was  de- 
licious as  she  was.  And  Doro — he  was  delightful  as  he 
was.  The  girl  was  enchanting  in  her  ignorance.  The 
youth — to  Artois  the  Marchesino  seemed  almost  a  boy, 
indeed,  often  quite  a  boy — was  admirable  in  his  pre- 
cocity. He  embodied  Naples,  its  gay  furberia,  and  yet 
that  was  hardly  the  word — perhaps  rather  one  should 
say  its  sunny  naughtiness,  its  reckless  devotion  to  life 
purged  of  thought.  And  Vere — what  did  she  embody? 
Not  Sicily,  though  she  was  in  some  ways  so  Sicilian. 
Not  England;  certainly  not  that! 

Suddenly  Artois  was  conscious  that  he  knew  Doro 
much  better  than  he  knew  Vere.  He  remembered  the 
statement  of  an  Austrian  psychologist,  that  men  are  far 
more  mysterious  than  women,  and  shook  his  head  over 
it  now.  He  felt  strongly  the  mystery  that  lay  hidden 
deep  down  in  the  innocence  of  Vere,  in  the  innocence  of 

76 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

every  girl-child  of  Vere's  age  who  had  brains,  tempera- 
ment and  perfect  purity.  What  a  marvellous  combina- 
tion they  made!  He  imagined  the  clear  flame  of  them 
burning  in  the  night  of  the  world  of  men.  Vere  must 
be  happy. 

When  he  said  this  to  himself  he  knew  that,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time,  he  was  despairing  of  something  that 
he  ardently  desired.  He  was  transferring  a  wish,  that 
was  something  like  a  prayer  in  the  heart  of  one  who  had 
seldom  prayed.  He  was  giving  up  hope  for  Hermione 
and  fastening  hope  on  Vere.  For  a  moment  that  seemed 
like  treachery,  like  an  abandoning  of  Hermione.  Since 
their  interview  on  the  sea  Artois  had  felt  that,  for  Her- 
mione, all  possibility  of  real  happiness  was  over.  She 
could  not  detach  her  love.  It  had  been  fastened  irre- 
vocably on  Maurice.  It  was  now  fastened  irrevocably 
on  Maurice's  memory.  Long  ago,  had  she,  while  he  was 
alive,  found  out  what  he  had  done,  her  passion  for  him 
might  have  died,  and  in  the  course  of  years  she  might 
have  been  able  to  love  again.  But  now  it  was  surely 
too  late.  She  had  lived  with  her  memory  too  long.  It 
was  her  blessing — to  remember,  to  recall,  how  love  had 
blessed  her  life  for  a  time.  And  if  that  memory  were 
desecrated  now  she  would  be  as  one  wrecked  in  the  storm 
of  life.  Yet  with  that  memory  how  she  suffered! 

What  could  he  do  for  her  ?  His  chivalry  must  exercise 
itself.  He  must  remain  in  the  lists,  if  only  to  fight  for 
Hermione  in  Vere.  And  the  Marchesino  ?  Artois  seem- 
ed to  divine  that  he  might  be  an  enemy  in  certain  cir- 
cumstances. 

A  warmth  of  sentiment,  not  very  common  in  Artois, 
generated  within  him  by  such  thoughts  as  these,  thoughts 
that  detained  him  from  work,  still  glowed  in  his  heart 
when  evening  fell  and  the  Marchesino  came  gayly  in  to 
take  him  out  upon  the  sea. 

"There's  a  little  wind,  Emilio,"  he  said,  as  they  got 

77 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

into  the  boat  in  the  harbor  of  Santa  Lucia;  "we  can  sail 
to  the  Antico  Giuseppone.  And  after  dinner  we'll  fish 
for  sarde.  Isn't  it  warm  ?  One  could  sleep  out  on  such 
a  night." 

They  had  two  men  with  them.  When  they  got  be- 
yond the  breakwater  the  sail  was  set,  the  Marchesino 
took  the  helm,  and  the  boat  slipped  through  the  smooth 
sea,  rounded  the  rocks  on  which  the  old  fort  stands  to 
stare  at  Capri,  radiant  now  as  a  magic  isle  in  the  curiously 
ethereal  light  of  evening,  and  headed  for  the  distant 
point  of  land  which  hid  Ischia  from  their  eyes.  The 
freedom  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  was  granted  them — the 
freedom  of  the  sea.  As  they  ran  out  into  the  open 
water,  and  Artois  saw  the  round  gray  eyes  of  the  Marche- 
sino dancing  to  the  merry  music  of  a  complete  bodily 
pleasure,  he  felt  like  a  man  escaping.  He  looked  back 
at  the  city  almost  as  at  a  sad  life  over,  and  despite  his 
deep  and  persistent  interest  in  men  he  understood  the 
joy  of  the  hermit  who  casts  them  from  him  and  escapes 
into  the  wilds.  The  radiance  of  the  Bay,  one  of  the 
most  radiant  of  all  the  inlets  of  the  sea,  bold  and  glaring 
in  the  brilliant  daytime,  becomes  exquisitely  delicate 
towards  night.  Vesuvius,  its  fiery  watcher,  looks  like 
a  kindly  guardian,  until  perhaps  the  darkness  shows  the 
flame  upon  its  flanks,  the  flame  bursting  forth  from  the 
mouth  it  opens  to  the  sky;  and  the  coast-line  by  Sor- 
rento, the  lifted  crest  of  Capri,  even  the  hill  of  Posilipo, 
appear  romantic  and  enticing,  calling  lands  holding 
wonderful  pleasures  for  men,  joys  in  their  rocks  and 
trees,  joys  in  their  dim  recesses,  joys  and  soft  realities 
fulfilling  every  dream  upon  their  coasts  washed  by  the 
whispering  waves. 

The  eyes  of  the  Marchesino  were  dancing  with  physical 
pleasure.  Artois  wondered  how  much  he  felt  the  beauty 
of  the  evening,  and  how.  His  friend  evidently  saw  the 
question  in  his  eyes,  for  he  said: 

78 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"The  man  who  knows  not  Naples  knows  not  pleasure.*' 

"Is  that  a  Neapolitan  saying?"  asked  Artois. 

"Yes,  and  it  is  true.  There  is  no  town  like  Naples  for 
pleasure.  Even  your  Paris,  Emilio,  with  all  its  theatres, 
its  cocottes,  its  restaurants — no,  it  is  not  Naples.  No 
wonder  the  forestieri  come  here.  In  Naples  they  are 
free.  They  can  do  what  they  will.  They  know  we  shall 
not  mind.  We  are  never  shocked." 

"And  do  you  think  we  are  easily  shocked  in  Paris?" 

"No,  but  it  is  not  the  same.  You  have  not  Vesuvius 
there.  You  have  not  the  sea,  you  have  not  the  sun." 

Artois  began  laughingly  to  protest  against  the  last 
statement,  but  the  Marchesino  would  not  have  it. 

"No,  no,  it  shines — I  know  that, — but  it  is  not  the 
sun  we  have  here." 

He  spoke  to  the  seamen  in  the  Neapolitan  dialect. 
They  were  brown,  muscular  fellows.  In  their  eyes  were 
the  extraordinary  boldness  and  directness  of  the  sea. 
Neither  of  them  looked  gay.  Many  of  the  Neapolitans 
who  are  much  upon  the  sea  have  serious,  even  grave 
faces.  These  were  intensely,  almost  overpoweringly 
male.  They  seemed  to  partake  of  the  essence  of  the 
elements  of  nature,  as  if  blood  of  the  sea  ran  in  their 
veins,  as  if  they  were  hot  with  the  grim  and  inner  fires 
of  the  sun.  When  they  spoke  their  faces  showed  a  cer- 
tain changefulness  that  denoted  intelligence,  but  never 
lost  the  look  of  force,  of  an  almost  tense  masculinity 
ready  to  battle,  perpetually  alive  to  hold  its  own. 

The  Marchesino  was  also  very  masculine,  but  in  a 
different  way  and  more  consciously  than  they  were. 
He  was  not  cultured,  but  such  civilization  as  he  had 
endowed  him  with  a  power  to  catch  the  moods  of  others 
not  possessed  by  these  men,  in  whom  persistence  was 
more  visible  than  adroitness,  unless  indeed  any  question 
of  money  was  to  the  fore. 

"We  shall  get  to  the  Giuseppone  by  eight,  Emilio," 

79 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  Marchesino  said,  dropping  his  conversation  with  the 
men,  which  had  been  about  the  best  hour  and  place  for 
their  fishing .  ' '  Are  you  hungry  ? ' ' 

" I  shall  be,"  said  Artois.  "This  wind  brings  an  appe- 
tite with  it.  How  well  you  steer!" 

The  Marchesino  nodded  carelessly. 

As  the  boat  drew  ever  nearer  to  the  point,  running 
swiftly  before  the  light  breeze,  its  occupants  were  silent. 
Artois  was  watching  the  evening,  with  the  eyes  of  a  lover 
of  nature,  but  also  with  the  eyes  of  one  who  takes  notes. 
The  Marchesino  seemed  to  be  intent  on  his  occupation 
of  pilot.  As  to  the  two  sailors,  they  sat  in  the  accus- 
tomed calm  and  staring  silence  of  seafaring  men,  with 
wide  eyes  looking  out  over  the  element  that  ministered 
to  their  wants.  They  saw  it  differently,  perhaps,  from 
Artois,  to  whom  it  gave  now  an  intense  aesthetic  pleasure, 
differently  from  the  Marchesino,  to  whom  it  was  just  a 
path  to  possible  excitement,  possible  gratification  of  a 
new  and  dancing  desire.  They  connected  it  with  strange 
superstitions,  with  gifts,  with  deprivations,  with  death. 
Familiar  and  mysterious  it  was  purely  to  them  as  to  all 
seamen,  like  a  woman  possessed  whose  soul  is  far  away. 

Just  as  the  clocks  of  Posilipo  were  striking  eight  the 
Marchesino  steered  the  boat  into  the  quay  of  the  Antico 
Guiseppone. 

Although  it  was  early  in  the  season  a  few  deal  tables 
were  set  out  by  the  waterside,  and  a  swarthy  waiter, 
with  huge  mustaches  and  a  napkin  over  his  arm,  came 
delicately  over  the  stones  to  ask  their  wishes. 

"Will  you  let  me  order  dinner,  Emilio?"  said  the 
Marchesino:  "I  know  what  they  do  best  here." 

Artois  agreed,  and  while  the  waiter  shuffled  to  carry 
out  the  Marchesino's  directions  the  two  friends  strolled 
near  the  edge  of  the  sea. 

The  breeze  had  been  kindly.  Having  served  them 
well  it  was  now  dying  down  to  its  repose,  leaving  the 

80 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

evening  that  was  near  to  night  profoundly  calm.  As 
Artois  walked  along  the  quay  he  felt  the  approach  of 
calm  like  the  approach  of  a  potentate,  serene  in  the  vast 
consciousness  of  power.  Peace  was  invading  the  sea, 
irresistible  peace.  The  night  was  at  hand.  Already 
Naples  uncoiled  its  chain  of  lamps  along  the  Bay.  In 
the  gardens  of  Posilipo  the  lights  of  the  houses  gleamed. 
Opposite,  but  very  far  off  across  the  sea,  shone  the  tiny 
flames  of  the  houses  of  Portici,  of  Torre  del  Greco,  of 
Torre  Annunziata,  of  Castellamare.  Against  the  gath- 
ering darkness  Vesuvius  belched  slowly  soft  clouds  of 
rose-colored  vapor,  which  went  up  like  a  menace  into 
the  dim  vault  of  the  sky.  The  sea  was  without  waves. 
The  boats  by  the  wharf,  where  the  road  ascends  past  the 
villa  Rosebery  to  the  village  of  Posilipo,  scarcely  moved. 
Near  them,  in  a  group,  lounging  against  the  wall  and 
talking  rapidly,  stood  the  two  sailors  from  Naples  with 
the  boatmen  of  the  Guiseppone.  Oil  lamps  glimmered 
upon  two  or  three  of  the  deal  tables,  round  one  of  which 
was  gathered  a  party  consisting  of  seven  large  women, 
three  children,  and  two  very  thin  middle-aged  men  with 
bright  eyes,  all  of  whom  were  eating  oysters.  Farther 
on,  from  a  small  arbor  that  gave  access  to  a  fisherman's 
house,  which  seemed  to  be  constructed  partially  in  a 
cave  of  the  rock,  and  which  was  gained  by  a  steep  and 
crumbling  stairway  of  stone,  a  mother  called  shrilly  to 
some  half -naked  little  boys  who  were  fishing  with  tiny 
hand-nets  in  the  sea.  By  the  table  which  was  destined 
to  the  Marchesino  and  Artois  three  ambulant  musicians 
were  hovering,  holding  in  their  broad  and  dirty  hands 
two  shabby  mandolins  and  a  guitar.  In  the  distance  a 
cook  with  a  white  cap  on  his  head  and  bare  arms  was 
visible,  as  he  moved  to  and  fro  in  the  lighted  kitchen  of 
the  old  ristorante,  preparing  a  "zuppa  di  pesce"  for  the 
gentlemen  from  Naples. 

"Che  bella  notte!"  said  the  Marchesino,  suddenly. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

His  voice  sounded  sentimental.  He  twisted  his  mus- 
taches and  added: 

"Emilio,  we  ought  to  have  brought  two  beautiful 
women  with  us  to-night.  What  are  the  moon  and  the 
sea  to  men  without  beautiful  women?" 

"And  the  fishing?"  said  Artois. 

"To  the  devil  with  the  fishing,"  replied  the  young 
man.  "Ecco!  our  dinner  is  ready,  with  thanks  to  the 
Madonna!" 

They  sat  down,  one  on  each  side  of  the  small  table, 
with  a  smoking  lamp  between  them. 

"I  have  ordered  vino  bianco,"  said  the  Marchesino, 
who  still  looked  sentimental.  "Cameriere,  take  away 
the  lamp.  Put  it  on  the  next  table.  Va  bene.  We  are 
going  to  have  'zuppa  di  pesce,'  gamberi  and  veal  cut- 
lets. The  wine  is  Capri.  Now  then,"  he  added,  with 
sudden  violence  and  the  coarsest  imaginable  Neapoli- 
tan accent,  "if  you  fellows  play  'Santa  Lucia,'  'Napoli 
Bella,'  or  'Sole  mio'  you'll  have  my  knife  in  you.  I 
am  not  an  Inglese.  I  am  a  Neapolitan.  Remember 
that!" 

He  proved  it  with  a  string  of  gutter  words  and  oaths, 
at  which  the  musicians  smiled  with  pleasure.  Then, 
turning  again  to  Artois,  he  continued: 

"  If  one  doesn't  tell  them  they  think  one  is  an  imbecile. 
Emilio  caro,  do  you  not  love  to  see  the  moon  with  a 
beautiful  girl?" 

His  curious  assumption  that  Artois  and  he  were  con- 
temporaries because  they  were  friends,  and  his  appar- 
ently absolute  blindness  to  the  fact  that  a  man  of  sixty 
and  a  man  of  twenty-four  are  hardly  likely  to  regard  the 
other  sex  with  an  exactly  similar  enthusiasm,  always 
secretly  entertained  the  novelist,  who  made  it  his  business 
with  this  friend  to  be  accommodating,  and  who  seldom,  if 
ever,  showed  himself  authoritative,  or  revealed  any  part 
of  his  real  inner  self. 

82 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Ma  si!"  he  replied;  "the  night  and  the  moon  are 
made  for  love." 

"Everything  is  made  for  love,"  returned  the  Marche- 
sino.  "Take  plenty  of  soaked  bread,  Emilio.  They 
know  how  to  make  this  zuppa  here.  Everything  is 
made  for  love. — Look!  There  is  a  boat  coming  with 
women  in  it!" 

At  a  short  distance  from  the  shore  a  rowing  boat  was 
visible;  and  from  it  now  came  shrill  sounds  of  very 
common  voices,  followed  by  shouts  of  male  laughter. 

"Perhaps  they  are  beautiful,"  said  the  Marchesino, 
at  once  on  the  alert. 

The  boat  drew  in  to  the  quay,  and  from  it  there 
sprang,  with  much  noise  and  many  gesticulations,  two 
over-dressed  women — probably,  indeed  almost  certainly, 
canzonettiste — and  two  large  young  men,  whose  brown 
fingers  and  whose  chests  gleamed  with  false  diamonds. 
As  they  passed  the  table  where  the  two  friends  were 
sitting,  the  Marchesino  raked  the  women  with  his  bold 
gray  eyes.  One  of  them  was  large  and  artificially  blonde, 
with  a  spreading  bust,  immense  hips,  a  small  waist,  and 
a  quantity  of  pale  dyed  hair,  on  which  was  perched  a 
bright  blue  hat.  The  other  was  fiercely  dark,  with 
masses  of  coarse  black  hair,  big,  blatant  eyes  that 
looked  quite  black  in  the  dim  lamplight,  and  a  figure 
that  suggested  a  self-conscious  snake.  Both  were  young. 
They  returned  the  Marchesino's  stare  with  vigorous 
impudence  as  they  swung  by. 

' '  What  sympathetic  creatures ! "  he  murmured.  ' '  They 
are  two  angels.  I  believe  I  have  seen  one  of  them  at 
the  Margherita.  What  was  her  name — Maria  Leoni,  I 
fancy." 

He  looked  enviously  at  the  young  men.  The  arrival 
of  the  lobster  distracted  his  attention  for  the  moment; 
but  it  was  obvious  that  the  appearance  of  these  women 
had  increased  the  feeling  of  sentimentality  already  gen- 

83 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

erated  in  him  by  the  softness  and  stillness  of  the 
night. 

The  three  musicians,  rendered  greedy  rather  than 
inspired  by  the  presence  of  more  clients,  now  began  to 
pluck  a  lively  street  tune  from  their  instruments;  and 
the  waiter,  whose  mustaches  seemed  if  possible  bigger 
now  that  night  was  fully  come,  poured  the  white  wine 
into  the  glasses  with  the  air  of  one  making  a  libation. 

As  the  Marchesino  ate,  he  frequently  looked  towards 
the  party  at  the  neighboring  table.  He  was  evidently 
filled  with  envy  of  the  two  men  whose  jewels  glittered 
as  they  gesticulated  with  their  big  brown  hands.  But 
presently  their  pleasure  and  success  recalled  to  him 
something  which  he  had  momentarily  forgotten,  the 
reason  why  he  had  planned  this  expedition.  He  was 
in  pursuit.  The  recollection  cheered  him  up,  restored 
to  him  the  strength  of  his  manhood,  put  him  right  with 
himself.  The  envy  and  the  almost  sickly  sentimentality 
vanished  from  him,  and  he  broke  into  the  usual  gay  con- 
versation which  seldom  failed  him,  either  by  day  or 
night. 

It  was  past  nine  before  they  had  finished  their  coffee. 
The  two  boatmen  had  been  regaled  and  had  drunk  a 
bottle  of  wine,  and  the  moon  was  rising  and  making  the 
oil  lamps  of  the  Giuseppone  look  pitiful.  From  the  table 
where  the  canzonettiste  were  established  came  peals  of 
laughter,  which  obviously  upset  the  seven  large  and 
respectable  women  who  had  been  eating  oysters,  and 
who  now  sat  staring  heavily  at  the  gay  revellers,  while 
the  two  thin  middle-aged  men  with  bright  eyes  began 
to  look  furtively  cheerful,  and  even  rather  younger  than 
they  were.  The  musicians  passed  round  a  small  leaden 
tray  for  soldi,  and  the  waiter  brought  the  Marchesino 
the  bill,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Artois,  aware  that  he 
at  least  was  not  a  Neapolitan.  Artois  gave  him  some- 
thing and  satisfied  the  musicians,  while  the  Marchesino 

84 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

disputed  the  bill,  not  because  he  minded  paying,  but 
merely  to  prove  that  he  was  a  Neapolitan  and  not  an 
imbecile.  The  matter  was  settled  at  last,  and  they 
went  towards  the  boat;  the  Marchesino  casting  many 
backward  glances  towards  the  two  angels,  who,  with 
their  lovers,  were  becoming  riotous  in  their  gayety  as 
the  moon  came  up. 

"Are  we  going  out  into  the  Bay?"  said  Artois,  as  they 
stepped  into  the  boat,  and  were  pushed  off. 

"Where  is  the  best  fishing-ground?"  asked  the  Marche- 
sino of  the  elder  of  the  two  men. 

"Towards  the  islet,  Signorino  Marchesino,"  he  replied 
at  once,  looking  his  interlocutor  full  in  the  face  with 
steady  eyes,  but  remaining  perfectly  grave. 

Artois  glanced  at  the  man  sharply.  For  the  first  time 
it  occurred  to  him  that  possibly  his  friend  had  arranged 
this  expedition  with  a  purpose  other  than  that  which 
he  had  put  forward.  It  was  not  the  fisherman's  voice 
which  had  made  Artois  wonder,  but  the  voice  of  the 
Marchesino. 

"There  are  generally  plenty  of  sarde  round  the  islet," 
continued  the  fisherman,  "but  if  the  Signori  would  not 
be  too  tired  it  would  be  best  to  stay  out  the  night.  We 
shall  get  many  more  fish  towards  morning,  and  we  can 
run  the  boat  into  the  Pool  of  San  Francesco,  and  have 
some  sleep  there  if  the  Signori  like.  We  others  gen- 
erally take  a  nap  there,  and  go  to  work  further  on  in  the 
night.  But  of  course  it  is  as  the  Signori  prefer." 

"They  want  to  keep  us  out  all  night  to  get  more  pay," 
said  the  Marchesino  to  Artois,  in  bad  French. 

He  had  divined  the  suspicion  that  had  suddenly  risen 
up  in  his  friend,  and  was  resolved  to  lay  it  to  rest, 
without,  however,  abandoning  his  purpose,  which  had 
become  much  more  ardent  with  the  coming  of  the 
night.  The  voices  of  the  laughing  women  were  ring- 
ing in  his  ears.  He  felt  adventurous.  The  youth  in 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

him  was  rioting,  and  he  was  longing  to  be  gay,  as  the 
men  with  those  women  were  being  gay. 

"What  do  you  think,  Emilio  caro?"  he  asked. 

Then  before  Artois  could  reply,  he  said: 

"After  all,  what  do  a  few  soldi  matter?  Who  could 
sleep  in  a  room  on  such  a  night?  It  might  be  August, 
when  one  bathes  at  midnight,  and  sings  canzoni  till 
dawn.  Let  us  do  as  he  says.  Let  us  rest  in  the — what 
is  the  pool  ?"  he  asked  of  the  fishermen,  pretending  not 
to  know  the  name. 

"The  pool  of  San  Francesco,  Signorino  Marchesino." 

"Pool  of  San  Francesco.  I  remember  now.  That  is 
the  place  where  all  the  fishermen  along  the  coast  towards 
Nisida  go  to  sleep.  I  have  slept  there  many  times  when 
I  was  a  boy,  and  so  has  Viviano.  To-night  shall  we  do 
as  the  fishermen,  Emilio?" 

There  was  no  pressure  in  his  careless  voice.  His  eyes 
for  the  moment  looked  so  simple,  though  as  eager,  as  a 
child's. 

"Anything  you  like,  mon  ami,"  said  Artois. 

He  did  not  want  to  go  to  San  Francesco's  Pool  with 
the  Marchesino,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  seem  reluctant 
to  go.  And  he  said  to  himself  now  that  his  interior 
hesitation  was  absurd.  Night  had  fallen.  By  the  time 
they  reached  the  Pool  the  inmates  of  the  Casa  del  Mare 
would  probably  be  asleep.  Even  if  they  were  not,  what 
did  it  matter?  The  boat  would  lie  among  the  vessels 
of  the  fishermen.  The  Marchesino  and  he  would  share 
the  fishermen's  repose.  And  even  if  Hermione  and  Vere 
should  chance  to  be  out  of  doors  they  would  not  see  him, 
or,  if  they  did,  would  not  recognize  him  in  the  night. 

His  slight  uneasiness,  prompted  by  a  vague  idea  that 
the  Marchesino  was  secretly  mischievous,  had  possibly 
some  plan  in  his  mind  connected  with  the  islet,  was 
surely  without  foundation. 

He  told  himself  so  as  the  fishermen  laid  hold  of  their 

86 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

oars  and  set  the  boat's  prow  towards  the  point  of  land 
which  conceals  the  small  harbor  of  the  Villa  Rosebery. 

The  shrill  voices  of  the  two  singers  died  away  from 
their  ears,  but  lingered  in  the  memory  of  the  Marchesino, 
as  the  silence  of  the  sea  took  the  boat  to  itself,  the  sea 
silence  and  the  magic  of  the  moon. 

He  turned  his  face  towards  the  silver,  beyond  which, 
hidden  as  yet,  was  the  islet  where  dwelt  the  child  he 
meant  to  know. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ALTHOUGH  Hermione  had  told  Artois  that  she  could 
not  find  complete  rest  and  happiness  in  her  child,  that 
she  could  not  live  again  in  Vere  fully  and  intensely  as 
she  had  lived  once,  as  she  still  had  it  in  her  surely  to 
live,  she  and  Vere  were  in  a  singularly  close  relationship. 
They  had  never  yet  been  separated  for  more  than  a  few 
days.  Vere  had  not  been  to  school,  and  much  of  her 
education  had  been  undertaken  by  her  mother.  In 
Florence  she  had  been  to  classes  and  lectures.  She  had 
had  lessons  in  languages,  French,  German,  and  Italian, 
in  music  and  drawing.  But  Hermione  had  been  her 
only  permanent  teacher,  and  until  her  sixteenth  birth- 
day she  had  never  been  enthusiastic  about  anything 
without  carrying  her  enthusiasm  to  her  mother,  for 
sympathy,  explanation,  or  encouragement. 

Sorrow  had  not  quenched  the  elan  of  Hermione 's 
nature.  What  she  had  told  Artois  had  been  true — she 
was  not  a  finished  woman,  nor  would  she  ever  be,  so 
long  as  she  was  alive  and  conscious.  Her  hunger  for 
love,  her  passionate  remembrance  of  the  past,  her  in- 
capacity to  sink  herself  in  any  one  since  her  husband's 
death,  her  persistent,  though  concealed,  worship  of  his 
memory,  all  these  things  proved  her  vitality.  Artois 
was  right  when  he  said  that  she  was  a  force.  There  was 
something  in  her  that  was  red-hot,  although  she  was  now 
a  middle-aged  woman.  She  needed  much  more  than 
most  people,  because  she  had  much  more  than  most 
people  have  to  give. 

88 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Her  failure  to  express  herself  in  an  art  had  been  a 
tragedy.  From  this  tragedy  she  turned,  not  with  bitter- 
ness, but  perhaps  with  an  almost  fiercer  energy,  to  Vere. 
Her  intellect,  released  from  fruitless  toil,  was  running 
loose  demanding  some  employment.  She  sought  that 
employment  in  developing  the  powers  of  her  child.  Vere 
was  not  specially  studious.  Such  an  out-of-door  tem- 
perament as  hers  could  never  belong  to  a  bookworm  or 
a  recluse.  But  she  was  naturally  clever,  as  her  father 
had  not  been,  and  she  was  enthusiastic  not  only  in  pleas- 
ure but  in  work.  Long  ago  Hermione,  trying  with  lov- 
ing anxiety  to  educate  her  boyish  husband,  to  make  him 
understand  certain  subtleties  of  her  own,  had  found  her- 
self frustrated.  When  she  made  such  attempts  with 
Vere  she  was  met  half  way.  The  girl  understood  with 
swiftness  even  those  things  with  which  she  was  not 
specially  in  sympathy.  Her  father's  mind  had  slipped 
away,  ever  so  gracefully,  from  all  which  it  did  not  love. 
Vere's  could  grasp  even  the  unloved  subject.  There 
was  mental  grit  in  her — Artois  knew  it.  In  all  her  work 
until  her  sixteenth  year  Vere  had  consulted  her  mother. 
Nothing  of  her  child  till  then  was  ever  hidden  from 
Hermione,  except  those  things  which  the  human  being 
cannot  reveal,  and  sometimes  scarcely  knows  of.  The 
child  drew  very  much  from  her  mother,  responded  to  her 
enthusiasm,  yet  preserved  instinctively,  and  quite  with- 
out self-consciousness,  her  own  individuality. 

Artois  had  noticed  this,  and  this  had  led  him  to  say 
that  Vere  also  was  a  force. 

But  when  she  was  sixteen  Vere  woke  up  to  something. 
Until  now  no  one  but  herself  knew  to  what.  Sometimes 
she  shut  herself  up  alone  in  her  room  for  long  periods. 
When  she  came  out  she  looked  lazy,  her  mother  thought, 
and  she  liked  to  go  then  to  some  nook  of  the  rocks  and 
sit  alone,  or  to  push  a  boat  out  into  the  centre  of  the 
Saint's  Pool,  and  lie  in  it  with  her  hands  clasped  behind 

89 


her  head  looking  up  at  the  passing  clouds  or  at  the  radi- 
ance of  the  blue. 

Hermione  knew  how  fond  Vere  was  of  reading,  and 
supposed  that  this  love  was  increasing  as  the  child  grew 
older.  She  sometimes  felt  a  little  lonely,  but  she  was 
unselfish.  Vere's  freedom  was  quite  innocent.  She,  the 
mother,  would  not  seek  to  interfere  with  it.  Soon  after 
dinner  on  the  evening  of  the  Marchesino's  expedition 
with  Artois,  Vere  had  got  up  from  the  sofa,  on  which  she 
had  been  sitting  with  a  book  of  Rossetti's  poems  in  her 
hand,  had  gone  over  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  had 
stood  for  two  or  three  minutes  looking  out  over  the  sea. 
Then  she  had  turned  round,  come  up  to  her  mother  and 
kissed  her  tenderly — more  tenderly,  Hermione  thought, 
even  than  usual. 

"Good-night,  Madre  mia,"  she  had  said. 

And  then,  without  another  word,  she  had  gone  swiftly 
out  of  the  room. 

After  Vere  had  gone  the  room  seemed  very  silent.  In 
the  evening,  if  they  stayed  in  the  house,  they  usually  sat 
in  Hermione's  room  up-stairs.  They  had  been  sitting 
there  to-night.  The  shutters  were  not  closed.  The 
window  that  faced  the  sea  towards  Capri  was  open.  A 
little  moonlight  began  to  mingle  subtly  with  the  light 
from  the  two  lamps,  to  make  it  whiter,  cleaner,  sugges- 
tive of  outdoor  things  and  large  spaces.  Hermione  had 
been  reading  when  Vere  was  reading.  She  did  not  read 
now  Vere  was  gone.  Laying  down  her  book  she  sat 
listening  to  the  silence,  realizing  the  world  without. 
Almost  at  her  feet  was  the  sea,  before  her  a  wide-stretch- 
ing expanse,  behind  her,  confronted  by  the  desolate  rocks, 
the  hollow  and  mysterious  caverns.  In  the  night,  the 
Saint,  unwearied,  watched  his  Pool.  Not  very  far  off, 
yet  delightfully  remote,  lay  Naples  with  its  furious  ac- 
tivities, its  gayeties,  its  intensities  of  sin,  of  misery,  of 
pleasure.  In  the  Galleria,  tourists  from  the  hotels  and 

90 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

from  the  ships  were  wandering  rather  vaguely,  watched 
and  followed  by  newspaper  sellers,  by  touts,  by  greedy, 
pale-faced  boys,  and  old,  worn-out  men,  all  hungry  for 
money  and  indifferent  how  it  was  gained.  Along  the 
Marina,  with  its  huge  serpent  of  lights,  the  street  singers 
and  players  were  making  their  nightly  pilgrimage,  paus- 
ing, wherever  they  saw  a  lighted  window  or  a  dark  figure 
on  a  balcony,  to  play  and  sing  the  tunes  of  which  they 
were  weary  long  ago.  On  the  wall,  high  above  the  sea, 
were  dotted  the  dilettante  fishermen  with  their  long  rods 
and  lines.  And  below,  before  each  stone  staircase  that 
descended  to  the  water,  was  a  waiting  boat,  and  in  the 
moonlight  rose  up  the  loud  cry  of  "Barca!  Barca!"  to 
attract  the  attention  of  any  casual  passer-by. 

And  here,  on  this  more  truly  sea-like  sea,  distant  from 
the  great  crowd  and  from  the  thronging  houses,  the  real 
fishermen  who  live  by  the  sea  were  alert  and  at  work,  or 
were  plunged  in  the  quiet  sleep  that  is  a  preparation  for 
long  hours  of  nocturnal  wakefulness. 

Hermione  thought  of  it  all,  was  aware  of  it,  felt  it,  as 
she  sat  there  opposite  to  the  open  window.  Then  she 
looked  over  to  her  writing-table,  on  which  stood  a  large 
photograph  of  her  dead  husband,  then  to  the  sofa  where 
Vere  had  been.  She  saw  the  volume  of  Rossetti  lying 
beside  the  cushion  that  still  showed  a  shallow  dent  where 
the  child's  head  had  been  resting. 

And  then  she  shut  her  eyes,  and  asked  her  imagination 
to  take  her  away  for  a  moment,  over  the  sea  to  Messina, 
and  along  the  curving  shore,  and  up  by  winding  paths  to 
a  mountain,  and  into  a  little  room  in  a  tiny,  whitewashed 
house,  not  the  house  of  the  sea,  but  of  the  priest.  It 
still  stood  there,  and  the  terrace  was  still  before  it.  And 
the  olive-trees  rustled,  perhaps,  just  now  in  the  wind  be- 
neath the  stars. 

Yes,  she  was  there.  Lucrezia  and  Gaspare  were  in 
bed.  But  she  and  Maurice  were  sitting  in  the  straw 
7  91 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

chairs  on  each  side  of  the  table,  facing  the  open  French 
window  and  the  flight  of  shallow  steps  that  led  down  to 
the  terrace. 

Faintly  she  heard  the  whisper  of  the  sea  about  the 
islet,  but  she  would  not  let  it  hinder  her  imagination: 
she  translated  it  by  means  of  her  imagination  into  the 
whisper  of  the  wind  low  down  the're,  in  the  ravine  among 
the  trees.  And  that  act  made  her  think  of  the  ravine, 
seemed  presently  to  set  her  in  the  ravine.  She  was 
there  in  the  night  with  Gaspare.  They  were  hurrying 
down  towards  the  sea.  He  was  behind  her,  and  she 
could  hear  his  footsteps — longing  to  go  faster.  But  she 
was  breathless,  her  heart  was  beating,  there  was  terror 
in  her  soul.  What  was  that  ?  A  rattle  of  stones  in  the 
darkness,  and  then  an  old  voice  muttering  "Benedicite!" 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  moved  suddenly,  like  one  in- 
tolerably stirred.  What  a  foe  the  imagination  can  be — 
what  a  foe!  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  window.  She 
must  drive  away  that  memory  of  the  ravine,  of  all  that 
followed  after.  Often  she  lingered  with  it,  but  to-night, 
somehow,  she  could  not,  she  dared  not.  She  was  less 
brave  than  usual  to-night. 

She  leaned  out  of  the  window. 

"Am  I  a  fool?" 

That  was  what  she  was  saying  to  herself.  And  she 
was  comparing  herself  now  with  other  people,  other 
women.  Did  she  know  one  who  could  not  uproot  an  old 
memory,  who  could  suffer,  and  desire,  and  internally 
weep,  after  more  than  sixteen  years? 

"I  suppose  it  is  preposterous." 

She  deliberately  chose  that  ugly  word  to  describe  her 
own  condition  of  soul.  But  instantly  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  far  down  in  that  soul  something  rose  up  and  an- 
swered: 

"No,  it  is  not.  It  is  beautiful.  It  is  divine.  It  is 
more — it  is  due.  He  gave  you  the  greatest  gift.  He  gave 

92 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

you  what  the  whole  world  is  always  seeking;  even  in 
blindness,  even  in  ignorance,  even  in  terrible  vice.  He 
gave  you  love.  How  should  you  forget  him?" 

Far  away  on  the  sea  that  was  faintly  silvered  by  the 
moon  there  was  a  black  speck.  It  was,  or  seemed  from 
this  distance  to  be,  motionless.  Hermione's  eyes  were 
attracted  to  it,  and  again  her  imagination  carried  her  to 
Sicily.  She  stood  on  the  shore  by  the  inlet,  she  saw  the 
boat  coming  in  from  the  open  sea.  Then  it  stopped 
midway — like  that  boat. 

She  heard  Gaspare  furiously  weeping. 

But  the  boat  moved,  and  the  sound  that  was  in  her 
imagination  died  away,  and  she  said  to  herself,  "All  that 
was  long  ago." 

The  boat  out  there  was  no  doubt  occupied  by  Neapoli- 
tan fishermen,  and  she  was  here  on  the  islet  in  the  Sea 
of  Naples,  and  Sicily  was  far  away  across  the  moonlit 
waters.  As  to  Gaspare — she  was  sure  he  was  not  weep- 
ing, faithful  though  he  was  to  the  memory  of  the  dead 
Padrone. 

And  Vere?  Hermione  wondered  what  Vere  was 
doing.  She  felt  sure,  though  she  did  not  know  why, 
that  Vere  had  not  gone  to  bed.  She  realized  to-night 
that  her  child  was  growing  up  rapidly,  was  passing  from 
the  stage  of  childhood  to  the  stage  of  girlhood,  was  on 
the  threshold  of  all  the  mysterious  experiences  that  life 
holds  for  those  who  have  ardent  temperaments  and  eager 
interests,  and  passionate  desires  and  fearless  hearts. 

To-night  Hermione  felt  very  strongly  the  difference 
between  the  father  and  the  daughter.  There  was  a 
gravity  in  Vere,  a  firmness,  that  Maurice  had  lacked. 
Full  of  life  and  warmth  as  she  was,  she  was  not  the  pure 
spirit  of  joy  that  he  had  been  in  those  first  days  in  Sicily. 
She  was  not  irresponsible.  She  was  more  keenly  aware 
of  others,  of  just  how  they  were  feeling,  of  just  how  they 
were  thinking,  than  Maurice  had  been. 

93 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Vere  was  very  individual. 

With  that  thought  there  came  to  Hermione  a  deeper 
sense  of  loneliness.  She  was  conscious  now  in  this 
moment,  as  she  had  never  been  conscious  before,  of  the 
independence  of  her  child's  character.  The  knowledge 
of  this  independence  seemed  to  come  upon  her  suddenly 
— she  could  not  tell  why;  and  she  saw  Vere  apart  from 
her,  detached,  like  a  column  in  a  lonely  place. 

And  she  herself — was  not  she  also  like  a  column  in  a 
lonely  place  ?  She  turned  back  into  the  room,  and  saw 
again  the  cushion  on  the  sofa  with  the  shallow  dent  where 
the  head  of  Vere  had  rested  only  a  few  minutes  ago,  and, 
moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  she  went  over  to  the  sofa, 
sank  down  on  it  and  pressed  her  head  against  the  cushion 
just  where  her  child's  head  had  been.  She  shut  her  eyes 
and  strove  to  think  herself  into  Vere,  and  to  call  Vere's 
mind  into  hers.  She  was  driven  by  the  tragic  desire  of 
woman — specially  tragic  in  her  case  because  frustrated — 
to  be  one  with  another  individuality,  to  merge  herself, 
to  be  fused,  to  be  no  longer  as  a  lonely  column  set  in  a 
desert  place. 

Vere  must  not  escape  from  her.  She  must  accompany 
her  child  step  by  step.  She  must  not  be  left  alone.  She 
had  told  Emile  that  she  could  not  live  again  in  Vere. 
And  that  was  true.  Vere  was  not  enough.  But  Vere 
was  very  much.  Without  Vere,  what  would  her  life  be  ? 

A  wave  of  melancholy  flowed  over  her  to-night,  a  tide 
come  from  she  knew  not  where.  Making  an  effort  to 
stem  it,  she  recalled  her  happiness  with  Maurice  after 
that  day  of  the  Tarantella.  How  groundless  had  really 
been  her  melancholy  then!  She  had  imagined  him 
escaping  from  her,  but  he  had  remained  with  her,  and 
loved  her.  He  had  been  good  to  her  until  the  end,  tender 
and  faithful.  If  she  had  ever  had  a  rival,  that  rival  had 
been  Sicily.  Always  her  imagination  was  her  torturer. 

Her  failure  in  art  had  been  a  tragedy  because  of  this. 

94 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

If  she  could  have  set  her  imagination  free  in  an  art  she 
would  have  been  far  safer  than  she  was.  Emile  Artois 
was  really  lonelier  than  she,  for  he  had  not  a  child.  But 
his  art  surely  saved  him  securely  from  her  sense  of  desola- 
tion. And  then  he  was  a  man,  and  men  must  need  far 
less  than  women  do.  Hermione  felt  that  it  was  so. 
She  thought  of  Emile  in  his  most  helpless  moment,  in  that 
period  when  he  was  ill  in  Kairouan  before  she  came. 
Even  then  she  believed  that  he  could  not  have  felt  quite 
so  much  alone  as  she  did  now ;  for  men  never  long  to  be 
taken  care  of  as  women  do.  And  yet  she  was  well,  in  this 
tranquil  house  which  was  her  own — with  Vere,  her  child, 
and  Gaspare,  her  devoted  servant. 

As  mentally  she  recounted  her  benefits,  the  strength 
there  was  in  her  arose,  protesting.  She  called  herself 
harsh  names:  egoist,  craven,  faineant.  But  it  was  no  use 
to  attack  herself.  In  the  deeps  of  her  poor,  eager, 
passionate,  hungry  woman's  nature  something  wept,  and 
needed,  and  could  not  be  comforted,  and  could  not  be 
schooled.  It  complained  as  one  feeble,  but  really  it  must 
be  strong;  for  it  was  pitilessly  persistent  in  its  grieving. 
It  had  a  strange  endurance.  Life,  the  passing  of  the 
years,  could  not  change  it,  could  not  still  it.  Those 
eternal  hungers  of  which  Hermione  had  spoken  to  Artois 
— they  must  have  their  meaning.  Somewhere,  surely, 
there  are  the  happy  hunting-grounds,  dreamed  of  by 
the  red  man— there  are  the  Elysian  Fields  where  the  souls 
that  have  longed  and  suffered  will  find  the  ultimate  peace. 

There  came  a  tap  at  the  door. 

Hermione  started  up  from  the  cushion  against  which 
she  had  pressed  her  head,  and  opened  her  eyes,  instinct- 
ively laying  her  hand  on  Vere's  volume  of  Rossetti,  and 
pretending  to  read  it. 

"Avanti!"  she  said. 

The  door  opened  and  Gaspare  appeared.  Hermione 
felt  an  immediate  sensation  of  comfort. 

95 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Gaspare,"  she  said,  "what  is  it  ?  I  thought  you  were 
in  bed/' 

"Ha  bisogna  Lei?"  he  said. 

It  was  a  most  familiar  phrase  to  Hermione.  It  had 
been  often  on  Gaspare's  lips  when  he  was  a  boy  in  Sicily, 
and  she  had  always  loved  it,  feeling  as  if  it  sprang  from 
a  nature  pleasantly  ready  to  do  anything  in  her  service. 
But  to-night  it  had  an  almost  startling  appropriateness, 
breaking  in  as  if  in  direct  response  to  her  gnawing  hunger 
of  the  heart.  As  she  looked  at  Gaspare,  standing  by  the 
door  in  his  dark-blue  clothes,  with  an  earnest  expression 
on  his  strong,  handsome  face,  she  felt  as  if  he  must  have 
come  just  then  because  he  was  conscious  that  she  had  so 
much  need  of  help  and  consolation.  And  she  could  not 
answer  "no"  to  his  simple  question.  « 

"Come  in,  Gaspare,"  she  said,  "and  shut  the  door. 
I'm  all  alone.  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you." 

He  obeyed  her,  shut  the  door  gently,  and  came  up  to 
her  with  the  comfortable  confidence  of  one  safe  in  his 
welcome,  desired  not  merely  as  a  servant  but  as  a  friend 
by  his  Padrona. 

"Did  you  want  to  say  anything  particular,  Gaspare?" 
Hermione  asked  him.  "Here — take  a  cigarette." 

She  gave  him  one.  He  took  it  gently,  twitching  his 
nose  as  he  did  so.  This  was  a  little  trick  he  had  when  he 
was  pleased. 

"You  can  smoke  it  here,  if  you  like." 

"Grazie,  Signora." 

He  lit  it  gravely  and  took  a  whiff.     Then  he  said: 

"The  Signorina  is  outside." 

"Is  she?" 

Hermione  looked  towards  the  window. 

"It  is  a  lovely  night." 

"Si,  Signora." 

He  took  another  whiff,  and  turned  his  great  eyes  here 

96 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  there,  looking  about  the  room.  Hermione  began  to 
wonder  what  he  had  to  say  to  her.  She  was  certain  that 
he  had  come  to  her  for  some  reason  other  than  just  to 
ask  if  she  had  need  of  him. 

"It  does  the  Signorina  good  to  get  a  breath  of  air 
before  she  goes  to  bed,"  Hermione  added,  after  a  moment 
of  silence.  "It  makes  her  sleep." 

"Si,  Signora." 

He  still  stood  calmly  beside  her,  but  now  he  looked 
at  her  with  the  odd  directness  which  had  been  charac- 
teristic of  him  as  a  boy,  and  which  he  had  not  lost  as  a 
man. 

"The  Signorina  is  getting  quite  big,  Signora,"  he  said. 
' '  Have  you  noticed  ?  Per  Dio !  In  Sicily,  if  the  Signorina 
was  a  Sicilian,  the  giovinotti  would  be  asking  to  marry 
her." 

"Ah,  but,  Gaspare,  the  Signorina  is  not  a  Sicilian," 
she  said.  "She  is  English,  you  know,  and  English  girls 
do  not  generally  think  of  such  things  till  they  are  much 
older  than  Sicilians." 

"But,  Signora,"  said  Gaspare,  with  the  bluntness 
which  in  him  was  never  rudeness,  but  merely  the  sin- 
cerity which  he  considered  due  to  his  Padrona  —  due 
also  to  himself,  "my  Padrone  was  like  a  real  Sicilian, 
and  the  Signorina  is  his  daughter.  She  must  be  like  a 
Sicilian  too,  by  force." 

"Your  Padrone,  yes,  he  was  a  real  Sicilian,"  Hermione 
said,  softly.  "But,  well,  the  Signorina  has  much  more 
English  blood  in  her  veins  than  Sicilian.  She  has  only 
a  little  Sicilian  blood." 

"But  the  Signorina  thinks  she  is  almost  a  Sicilian. 
She  wishes  to  be  a  Sicilian." 

"How  do  you  know  that,  Gaspare ?"  she  asked,  smiling 
a  little  at  his  firmness  and  persistence. 

' '  The  Signorina  said  so  the  other  day  to  the  giovinotto 
who  had  the  cigarettea,  Signora.  I  talked  to  him,  and  he 

97 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

told  me.  He  said  the  Signorina  had  said  to  him  that  she 
was  partly  a  Sicilian,  and  that  he  had  said  'no,'  that  she 
was  English.  And  when  he  said  that — he  said  to  me — 
the  Signorina  was  quite  angry.  He  could  see  that  she 
was  angry  by  her  face." 

"I  suppose  that  is  the  Sicilian  blood,  Gaspare.  There 
is  some  in  the  Signorina's  veins,  of  course.  And  then, 
you  know,  both  her  father  and  I  loved  your  country. 
I  think  the  Signorina  must  often  long  to  see  Sicily." 

"Does  she  say  so?"  asked  Gaspare,  looking  rather  less 
calm. 

"She  has  not  lately.  I  think  she  is  very  happy  here. 
Don't  you?" 

"Si,  Signora.  But  the  Signorina  is  growing  up  now, 
and  she  is  a  little  Sicilian  anyhow,  Signora." 

He  paused,  looking  steadily  at  his  Padrona. 

"What  is  it,  Gaspare?  What  do  you  want  to  say  to 
me?" 

"Signora,  perhaps  you  will  say  it  is  not  my  business, 
but  in  my  country  we  do  not  let  girls  go  about  by  them- 
selves after  they  are  sixteen.  We  know  it  is  better  not. 
Ecco!" 

Hermione  had  some  difficulty  in  not  smiling.  But  she 
knew  that  if  she  smiled  he  might  be  offended.  So  she 
kept  her  countenance  and  said: 

"What  do  you  mean,  Gaspare?  The  Signorina  is 
nearly  always  with  me." 

"No,  Signora.  The  Signorina  can  go  wherever  she 
likes.  She  can  speak  to  any  one  she  pleases.  She  is  free 
as  a  boy  is  free." 

"Certainly  she  is  free.     I  wish  her  to  be  free." 

"Va  bene,  Signora,  va  bene." 

A  cloud  came  over  his  face,  and  he  moved  as  if  to  go. 
But  Hermione  stopped  him. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Gaspare.  I  want  you  to  understand. 
I  like  your  care  for  the  Signorina.  You  know  I  trust 

98 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

you  and  depend  on  you  more  than  on  almost  any  one. 
But  you  must  remember  that  I  am  English,  and  in  Eng- 
land, you  know,  things  in  some  ways  are  very  different 
from  what  they  are  in  Sicily.  Any  English  girl  would  be 
allowed  the  freedom  of  the  Signorina." 

"Why?" 

"Why  not?  What  harm  does  it  do?  The  Signorina 
does  not  go  to  Naples  alone." 

"Per  Dio!"  he  interrupted,  in  a  tone  almost  of  horror. 

"Of  course  I  should  never  allow  that.  But  here  on  the 
island — why,  what  could  happen  to  her  here?  Come, 
Gaspare,  tell  me  what  it  is  you  are  thinking  of.  You 
haven't  told  me  yet.  I  knew  directly  you  came  in  that 
you  had  something  you  wanted  to  say.  What  is  it?" 

"I  know  it  is  not  my  business,"  he  said.  "And  I 
should  never  speak  to  the  Signorina,  but — " 

"Well,  Gaspare?" 

"Signora,  all  sorts  of  people  come  here  to  the  island — 
men  from  Naples.  We  do  not  know  them.  We  cannot 
tell  who  they  are.  And  they  can  all  see  the  Signorina. 
And  they  can  even  talk  to  her." 

"The  fishermen,  you  mean?" 

"Any  one  who  comes  in  a  boat." 

"Well,  but  scarcely  any  one  ever  comes  but  the  fisher- 
men. You  know  that." 

"Oh,  it  was  all  very  well  when  the  Signorina  was  a 
little  girl,  a  child,  Signora,"  he  said,  almost  hotly.  "But 
now  it  is  different.  It  is  quite  different." 

Suddenly  Hermione  understood.  She  remembered 
what  Vere  had  said  about  Gaspare  being  jealous.  He 
must  certainly  be  thinking  of  the  boy-diver,  of  Ruffo. 

"You  think  the  Signorina  oughtn't  to  talk  to  the  fisher- 
men?" she  said. 

"What  do  we  know  of  the  fishermen  of  Naples,  Sig- 
nora ?  We  are  not  Neapolitans.  We  are  strangers  here. 
We  do  not  know  their  habits.  We  do  not  know  what 

99 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

they  think.  They  are  different  from  us.  If  we  were  in 
Sicily!  I  am  a  Sicilian.  I  can  tell.  But  when  men  come 
from  Naples  saying  they  are  Sicilians,  how  can  I  tell 
whether  they  are  ruffiani  or  not  ?' 

Gaspare's  inner  thought  stood  revealed. 

"I  see,  Gaspare,"  Hermione  said,  quietly.  "You 
think  I  should  not  have  let  the  Signorina  talk  to  that 
boy  the  other  day.  But  I  saw  him  myself,  and  I  gave 
the  Signorina  leave  to  take  him  some  cigarettes.  And 
he  dived  for  her.  She  told  me  all  about  it.  She  always 
tells  me  everything." 

"I  do  not  doubt  the  Signorina,"  said  Gaspare.  "But 
I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  tell  you  what  I  thought, 
Signora.  Why  should  people  come  here  saying  they  are 
of  my  country,  saying  they  are  Sicilians,  and  talking  as 
the  Neapolitans  talk?'" 

"Well,  but  at  the  time  you  didn't  doubt  that  boy  was 
what  he  said  he  was,  did  you?" 

"Signora,  I  did  not  know.  I  could  not  know.  But 
since  then  I  have  been  thinking." 

"Well,  Gaspare,  you  are  quite  right  to  tell  me.  I  pre- 
fer that.  I  have  much  faith  in  you,  and  always  shall 
have.  But  we  must  not  say  anything  like  this  to  the 
Signorina.  She  would  not  understand  what  we  meant." 

"No,  Sfgnora.     The  Signorina  is  too  good." 

"She  wbuld  not  understand,  and  I  think  she  would 
be  hurt" — Hermione  used  the  word  "offesa," — "as  you 
would  be  if  you  fancied  I  thought  something  strange 
about  you." 

"SI,  Signora." 

"Good-night,  Gaspare." 

"Good-night,  Signora.     Buon  riposo." 

He  moved  towards  the  door.  When  he  reached  it  he 
stopped  and  added: 

"I  am  going  to  bed,  Signora." 

"Go.     Sleep  well." 

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A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Grazie,  Signora.  The  Signorina  is  still  outside,  I  am 
sure." 

"She  goes  out  for  a  minute  nearly  every  evening, 
Gaspare.  She  likes  the  air  and  to  look  at  the  sea." 

"SI,  Signora;  in  a  minute  I  shall  go  to  bed.  Buon 
riposo." 

And  he  went  out. 

When  he  had  gone  Hermione  remained  at  first  where 
she  was.  But  Gaspare  had  effectually  changed  her 
mood,  had  driven  away  what  she  chose  to  call  her  egoism, 
had  concentrated  all  her  thoughts  on  Vere.  He  had  never 
before  spoken  like  this  about  the  child.  It  was  a  sudden 
waking  up  on  his  part  to  the  fact  that  Vere  was  growing 
up  to  womanhood. 

When  he  chose,  Gaspare  could  always,  or  nearly  al- 
ways, make  his  Padrona  catch  his  mood;  there  was  some- 
thing so  definite  about  him  that  he  made  an  impression. 
And,  though  he  was  easily  inclined  to  be  suspicious  of 
those  whom  he  did  not  know  well,  Hermione  knew  him 
to  be  both  intelligent  and  shrewd,  especially  about  those 
for  whom  he  had  affection.  She  wondered  now  whether 
it  were  possible  that  Gaspare  saw,  understood,  or  even 
divined  intuitively,  more  clearly  than  she  did — she,  a 
mother! 

It  was  surely  very  unlikely. 

She  remembered  that  Gaspare  had  a  jealous  nature, 
like  most  of  his  countrymen. 

Nevertheless  he  had  suddenly  made  the  islet  seem  dif- 
ferent to  her.  She  had  thought  of  it  as  remote,  as 
pleasantly  far  away  from  Naples,  isolated  in  the  quiet 
sea.  But  it  was  very  easy  to  reach  from  Naples,  and,  as 
Gaspare  had  said,  what  did  they  know,  or  understand, 
of  the  Neapolitans,  they  who  were  strangers  in  the  land  ? 

She  wondered  whether  Vere  was  still  outside.  To- 
night she  certainly  envisaged  Vere  newly.  Never  till  to- 
night had  she  thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a  child;  as 

101 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

characteristic,  as  ardent,  as  determined  sometimes,  per- 
haps as  forceful  even,  but  always  with  a  child's  mind  be- 
hind it  all. 

But  to  the  people  of  the  South  Vere  was  already  a 
woman — even  to  Gaspare,  who  had  held  her  in  his  arms 
when  she  was  in  long  clothes.  At  least  Hermione  sup- 
posed so  now,  after  what  Gaspare  had  said  about  the 
giovinotti,  who,  in  Sicily,  would  have  been  wishing  to 
marry  Vere,  had  she  been  Sicilian.  And  perhaps  even 
the  mind  of  Vere  was  more  grown-up  than  her  mother 
had  been  ready  to  suppose. 

The  mother  was  conscious  of  a  slight  but  distinct  un- 
easiness. It  was  vague.  Had  she  been  asked  to  ex- 
plain it  she  could  not,  perhaps,  have  done  so. 

Presently,  after  a  minute  or  two  of  hesitation,  she  went 
to  the  window  that  faced  north,  opened  it,  and  stood  by 
it,  listening.  It  was  from  the  sea  on  this  side  that  the 
fishermen  who  lived  in  the  Mergellina,  and  in  the  town 
of  Naples,  came  to  the  islet.  It  was  from  this  direction 
that  Ruffo  had  come  three  clays  ago. 

Evidently  Gaspare  had  been  turning  over  the  boy's 
acquaintance  with  Vere  in  his  mind  all  that  time,  dis- 
approving of  it,  secretly  condemning  Hermione  for  having 
allowed  it.  No,  not  that;  Hermione  felt  that  he  was 
quite  incapable  of  condemning  her.  But  he  was  a 
watchdog  who  did  not  bark,  but  who  was  ready  to  bite 
all  those  who  ventured  to  approach  his  two  mistresses 
unless  he  was  sure  of  their  credentials.  And  of  this  boy's, 
Ruffo's,  he  was  not  sure. 

Hermione  recalled  the  boy;  his  brown  healthiness,  his 
laughing  eyes  and  lips,  his  strong  young  body,  his  care- 
less happy  voice.  And  she  found  herself  instinctively 
listening  by  the  window  to  hear  that  voice  again. 

Now,  as  she  looked  out,  the  loveliness  of  the  night  ap- 
pealed to  her  strongly,  and  she  felt  sure  that  Vere  must 
be  still  outside,  somewhere  under  the  moon. 

102 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Just  beneath  the  window  was  the  narrow  terrace,  on  to 
which  she  had  stepped  out,  obedient  to  Vere's  call, 
three  days  ago.  Perhaps  Vere  was  there,  or  in  the  gar- 
den beyond.  She  extinguished  the  lamp.  She  went  to 
her  bedroom  to  get  a  lace  shawl,  which  she  put  over  her 
head  and  drew  round  her  shoulders  like  a  mantilla.  Then 
she  looked  into  Vere's  room,  and  found  it  empty. 

A  moment  later  she  was  on  the  terrace  bathed  in  the 
radiance  of  the  moon. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VERB  was  outside  under  the  stars.  When  she  had 
said  good-night  and  had  slipped  away,  it  was  with  the 
desire  to  be  alone,  to  see  no  one,  to  speak  with  no  one 
till  next  morning.  But  the  desires  of  the  young  change 
quickly,  and  Vere's  presently  changed. 

She  came  out  of  the  house,  and  passing  over  the  bridge 
that  connected  together  the  two  cliffs  of  which  the  islet 
was  composed,  reached  the  limit  of  the  islet.  At  the  edge 
of  the  precipice  was  a  seat,  and  there  she  sat  down.  For 
some  time  she  rested  motionless,  absorbing  the  beauty 
and  the  silence  of  the  night.  She  was  looking  towards 
Ischia.  She  wished  to  look  that  way,  to  forget  all  about 
Naples,  the  great  city  which  lay  behind  her. 

Here  were  the  ancient  caves  darkening  with  their 
mystery  the  silver  wonder  of  the  sea.  Here  the  venerable 
shore  stretched  towards  lands  she  did  not  know.  They 
called  to  the  leaping  desires  of  her  heart  as  the  city  did 
not  call.  They  carried  her  away. 

Often,  from  this  seat,  on  dark  and  moonless  nights,  she 
had  watched  the  fishermen's  torches  flaring  below  her  in 
the  blackness,  and  had  thrilled  at  the  mystery  of  their 
occupation,  and  had  imagined  them  lifting  from  the  sea 
strange  and  wonderful  treasures,  that  must  change  the 
current  of  their  lives:  pearls  such  as  had  never  before 
been  given  to  the  breasts  of  women,  caskets  that  had 
lain  for  years  beneath  the  waters,  bottles  in  which  were 
stoppered  up  magicians  who,  released,  came  forth  in 
smoke,  as  in  the  Eastern  story. 

104 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Once  she  had  spoken  of  this  last  imagination  to  Gas- 
pare, and  had  seen  his  face  suddenly  change  and  look 
excited,  vivid,  and  then  sad.  She  had  asked  him  why 
he  looked  like  that,  and,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  he 
had  told  her  how,  long  ago,  before  she  was  born,  his 
Padrone  had  read  to  him  such  a  tale  as  they  lay  together 
upon  a  mountain  side  in  Sicily.  Vere  had  eagerly  ques- 
tioned him,  and  he,  speaking  with  vehemence  in  the  heat 
of  his  recollection,  had  brought  before  her  a  picture  of  that 
scene  in  his  simple  life ;  had  shown  her  how  he*  lay,  and 
how  the  Padrone  lay,  he  listening,  the  Padrone,  book  in 
hand,  reading  about  the  "mago  africano."  He  had  even 
told  Vere  of  their  conversation  afterwards,  and  how  he 
had  said  that  he  would  always  be  free,  that  he  would 
never  be  "stoppered  up,"  like  the  "mago  africano." 
And  when  she  had  wondered  at  his  memory,  growing  still 
more  excited  he  had  told  her  many  other  things  of  which 
his  Padrone  and  he  had  talked  together,  and  had  made 
her  feel  the  life  of  the  past  on  Monte  Amato  as  no  cultured 
person,  she  believed,  could  ever  have  made  her  feel  it. 
But  when  she  had  sought  to  question  him  about  her 
father's  death  he  had  become  silent,  and  she  had  seen 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  make  him  obey  her  and 
tell  her  all  the  details  that  she  longed  to  know. 

To-night  Vere  could  see  no  fishermen  at  work.  The 
silver  of  the  sea  below  her  was  unbroken  by  the  black 
forms  of  gliding  boats,  the  silence  was  unbroken  by  call- 
ing voices.  And  to-night  she  was  glad  that  it  was  so; 
for  she  was  in  the  mood  to  be  quite  alone.  As  she  sat 
there  very  still  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  drawing  nearer 
to  the  sea,  and  drawing  the  sea  to  her.  Indeed,  she 
was  making  some  such  imaginative  attempt  as  her 
mother  was  making  in  the  house — to  become,  in  fancy  at 
least,  one  with  something  outside  of  her,  to  be  fused  with 
the  sea,  as  her  mother  desired  to  be  fused  with  her.  But 
Vere's  endeavor  was  not  tragic,  like  her  mother's,  but 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

was  almost  tenderly  happy.  She  thought  she  felt  the  sea 
responding  to  her  as  she  responded  to  the  sea.  And  she 
was  very  glad  in  that  thought. 

Presently  she  began  to  wonder  about  the  fishermen. 

How  did  they  feel  about  the  sea  ?  To  her  the  sea  was 
romantic  and  personal.  Was  it  romantic  and  persona) 
to  them?  They  were  romantic  to  her  because  of  theii 
connection  with  the  sea.which  had  imprinted  upon  them 
something  of  itself,  showed  forth  in  them,  by  means  of 
them,  something  surely  of  its  own  character;  but  prob- 
ably, almost  certainly,  she  supposed,  they  were  uncon- 
scious of  this.  They  lived  by  the  sea.  Perhaps  they 
thought  of  it  as  of  a  vast  money-bag,  into  which  they 
dipped  their  hands  to  get  enough  to  live  by.  Or  per- 
haps they  thought  of  it  as  an  enemy,  against  which  they 
lived  in  perpetual  war,  from  which  they  wrung,  as  it  were 
at  the  sword's  point,  a  poor  and  precarious  booty. 

As  she  sat  thinking  about  this  Vere  began  to  change 
in  her  desire,  to  wish  there  were  some  fishermen  out  to- 
night about  the  islet,  and  that  she  could  have  speech  of 
them.  She  would  like  to  find  out  from  one  of  them  how 
they  regarded  the  sea. 

She  smiled  as  she  imagined  a  conversation  between 
herself  and  some  strong,  brown,  wild  Neapolitan,  she 
questioning  and  he  replying.  How  he  would  misunder- 
stand her!  He  would  probably  think  her  mad.  And 
yet  sometimes  the  men  of  the  sea  in  their  roughness  are 
imaginative.  They  are  superstitous.  But  a  man — no, 
she  could  not  question  a  man.  Her  mind  went  to  the 
boy  diver,  Ruffo.  She  had  often  thought  about  Ruffo 
during  the  last  three  days.  She  had  expected  to  see  him 
again.  He  had  said  nothing  about  returning  to  the  islet, 
but  she  had  felt  sure  he  would  return,  if  only  in  the  hope 
of  being  given  some  more  cigarettes.  Boys  in  his  position, 
she  knew  well,  do  not  get  a  present  of  Khali  Targa  ciga- 
rettes every  day  of  the  week.  How  happy  he  had  looked 

1 06 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

when  he  was  smoking  them!  She  remembered  exactly 
the  expression  of  his  brown  face  now,  as  she  sat  watch- 
ing the  empty,  moonlit  sea.  It  was  not  greedy.  It  was 
voluptuous.  She  remembered  seeing  somewhere  a  pict- 
ure of  some  Sultan  of  the  East  reclining  on  a  divan 
and  smoking  a  chibouk.  She  thought  Ruffo  had  looked 
rather  like  the  Sultan,  serenely  secure  of  all  earthly  en- 
joyment. At  that  moment  the  Pool  of  San  Francesco 
had  stood  to  the  boy  for  the  Paradise  of  Mahomet. 

But  Ruffo  had  not  come  again. 

Each  morning  Vere  had  listened  for  his  voice,  had 
looked  down  upon  the  sea  for  his  boat,  but  all  in  vain. 
On  the  third  day  she  had  felt  almost  angry  with  him 
unreasonably.  But  then  she  had  remembered  that  he 
was  not  his  own  master,  not  the  owner  of  the  boat.  Of 
course,  he  could  not  do  what  he  liked.  If  he  could — well, 
then  he  would  have  come  back.  She  was  positive  of  that. 

If  he  ever  did  come  back,  she  said  to  herself  now,  she 
/vould  question  him  about  the  sea.  She  would  get  at  his 
thoughts  about  the  sea,  at  his  feelings.  She  wondered 
if  they  could  possibly  be  at  all  like  hers.  It  was  unlikely, 
she  supposed.  They  two  were  so  very  different.  And 
yet — ! 

She  smiled  to  herself  again,  imagining  question  and. 
answer  with  Ruffo.  He  would  not  think  her  mad,  even 
if  she  puzzled  him.  They  understood  each  other.  Even 
her  mother  had  said  that  they  seemed  to  be  in  sympathy. 
And  that  was  true.  Difference  of  rank  need  not,  indeed 
cannot,  destroy  the  magic  chain  if  it  exists,  cannot  pre- 
vent its  links  from  being  forged.  She  knew  that  her 
mother  was  in  sympathy  with  Gaspare,  and  Gaspare  with 
her  mother.  So  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  n^' 
be  in  sympathy  with  Ruffo. 

If  he  were  here  to-night  she  would  begin  at  once  to 
talk  to  him  about  the  sea.     But  of  course  he  would 
never  come  at  night  to  the  islet. 
s  107 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Vere  knew  that  the  Neapolitan  fisherman  usually  keep 
each  to  his  own  special  branch  of  the  common  profession. 
By  this  time  of  night,  no  doubt,  Ruffo  was  in  his  home 
at  the  Mergellina,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  his  family,  or 
was  strolling  with  lively  companions  of  his  own  age,  or, 
perhaps,  was  fast  asleep  in  bed. 

Vere  felt  that  it  would  be  horrible  to  go  to  bed  on  such 
a  night,  to  shut  herself  in  from  the  moon  and  the  sea. 
The  fishermen  who  slept  in  the  shelter  of  the  Saint's 
•Pool  were  enviable.  They  had  the  stars  above  them,  the 
waters  about  them,  the  gentle  winds  to  caress  them  as 
they  lay  in  the  very  midst  of  romance. 

She  wondered  whether  there  were  any  boats  in  the 
Saint's  Pool  to-night.  She  had  not  been  to  see.  A  few 
steps  and  she  could  look  over.  She  got  up  and  went 
back  to  the  bridge,  treading  softly  because  she  was 
thinking  of  repose.  There  she  stopped  and  looked 
down.  She  saw  two  boats  on  the  far  side  of  the  Pool 
almost  at  the  feet  of  the  Saint.  The  men  in  them  must 
be  lying  down,  for  Vere  could  see  only  the  boats,  look- 
ing black,  and  filled  with  a  confused  blackness — of  sails 
probably,  and  sleeping  men.  The  rest  of  the  pool  was 
empty,  part  of  it  bright  with  the  radiance  of  the  moon, 
part  of  it  shading  away  to  the  mysterious  dimness  of  still 
water  at  night  under  the  lee  of  cliffs. 

For  some  time  the  girl  stood,  watching.  Just  at  that 
moment  her  active  brain  almost  ceased  to  work,  stilled 
by  the  reverie  that  is  born  of  certain  night  visions. 
Without  those  motionless  boats  the  Pool  of  the  Saint 
would  have  been  calm.  With  them,  its  stillness  seemed 
almost  ineffably  profound.  The  hint  of  life  bound  in  the 
cords  of  sleep,  prisoner  to  rest,  deepened  Nature's  im- 
pression and  sent  Vere  into  reverie.  There  were  no  trees 
here.  No  birds  sang,  for  although  it  was  the  month  of 
the  nightingales,  none  ever  came  to  sing  to  San  Francesco. 
No  insects  chirped  or  hummed.  All  was  stark  and  al- 

108 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

most  fearfully  still  as  in  a  world  abandoned ;  and  the  light 
fell  on  the  old  faces  of  the  rocks  faintly,  as  if  it  feared  to 
show  the  ravages  made  in  them  by  the  storms  of  the 
long  ages  they  had  confronted  and  defied. 

Vere  had  a  sensation  of  sinking  very  slowly  down  into 
a  gulf,  as  she  stood  there,  not  falling,  but  sinking,  down 
into  some  world  of  quiet  things,  farther  and  farther  down, 
leaving  all  the  sounds  of  life  far  up  in  light  above  her. 
And  descent  was  exquisite,  easy  and  natural,  and,  indeed, 
inevitable.  Nothing  called  her  from  below.  For  where 
she  was  going  there  were  no  voices.  Yet  she  felt  that  at 
last  there  would  be  something  to  receive  her;  mystical 
stillness,  mystical  peace. 

A  silky  sound — far  off — checked  that  imaginative 
descent  that  seemed  so  physical,  first  merely  arrested  it, 
then,  always  silky,  but  growing  louder,  took  her  swiftly 
and  softly  back  to  the  summit  she  had  left.  Now  she  was 
conscious  again  of  herself  and  of  the  night.  She  was 
listening.  The  sound  that  had  broken  her  reverie  was 
the  gentle  sweep  of  big-bladed  oars  through  the  calm  sea. 
As  she  knew  this  she  saw,  away  to  the  right,  a  black 
shadow  stealing  across  the  silver  waste  beyond  the  islet. 
It  pushed  its  way  to  the  water  at  her  very  feet,  and  chose 
that  as  its  anchorage. 

The  figure  of  the  rower  stood  up  straight  and  black 
for  a  moment,  looking  lonely  in  the  night. 

Vere  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she  knew  at  once  that 
he  was  Ruffo.  Her  inclination  was  to  bend  down  with 
the  soft  cry  of  "Pescator!"  which  she  had  sent  to  him 
on  the  sunny  morning  of  their  meeting.  She  checked  it, 
why  she  scarcely  knew,  in  obedience  to  some  imperious 
prompting  of  her  nature.  But  she  kept  her  eyes  on  him. 
And  they  were  full  of  will.  She  was  willing  him  not  to 
lie  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  sleep.  She  knew 
that  he  and  his  companions  must  have  come  to  the  pool 
at  that  hour  to  rest.  There  were  three  other  men  in  the 

109 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

boat.  Two  had  been  sitting  on  the  gunwale  of  it,  and 
now  lay  down.  The  third,  who  was  in  the  bows,  ex- 
changed some  words  with  the  rower,  who  replied.  Vere 
could  hear  the  sound  of  their  voices,  but  not  what  they 
said.  The  conversation  continued  for  two  or  three 
minutes,  while  Ruffo  was  taking  in  the  oars  and  laying 
them  one  on  each  side  of  the  boat.  When  he  had  done 
this  he  stretched  up  his  arms  to  their  full  length  above 
his  head,  and  a  loud  noise  of  a  prolonged  yawn  came  up 
to  Vere,  and  nearly  made  her  laugh.  Long  as  it  was,  it 
seemed  to  her  to  end  abruptly.  The  arms  dropped 
down. 

She  felt  sure  he  had  seen  her  watching,  and  stayed  quite 
still,  wondering  what  he  was  going  to  do.  Perhaps  he 
would  tell  the  other  man.  She  found  herself  quickly 
hoping  that  he  would  not.  That  she  was  there  ought  to 
be  their  little  secret. 

All  this  that  was  passing  through  her  mind  was  utterly 
foreign  to  any  coquetry.  Vere  had  no  more  feeling  of 
sex  in  regard  to  Ruffo  than  she  would  have  had  if  she 
had  been  a  boy  herself.  The  sympathy  she  felt  with  him 
was  otherwise  founded,  deep  down  in  mysteries  beyond 
the  mysteries  of  sex. 

Again  Ruffo  and  the  man  who  had  not  lain  down 
spoke  together.  But  the  man  did  not  look  up  to  Vere. 
He  must  have  looked  if  his  attention  had  been  drawn 
to  the  fact  that  she  was  there — a  little  spy  upon  the  men 
of  the  sea,  considering  them  from  her  eminence. 

Ruffo  had  not  told.     She  was  glad. 

Presently  the  man  moved  from  his  place  in  the  bows. 
She  saw  him  lift  a  leg  to  get  over  into  the  stern,  treading 
carefully  in  order  not  to  trample  on  his  sleeping  com- 
panions. Then  his  black  figure  seemed  to  shut  up  like 
a  telescope.  He  had  become  one  with  the  dimness  in  the 
boat,  was  no  longer  detached  from  it.  Only  Ruffo  was 
still  detached.  Was  he  going  to  sleep,  too? 

no 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

A  certain  tenseness  came  into  Vere's  body.  She  kept 
her  eyes,  which  she  had  opened  very  wide,  fixed  upon  the 
black  figure.  It  remained  standing.  The  head  moved. 
He  was  certainly  looking  up.  She  realized  that  he  was 
not  sleepy,  despite  that  yawn, — that  he  would  like  to 
speak  to  her — to  let  her  know  that  he  knew  she  was  there. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  dare  to — or,  not  that,  perhaps 
fishermen's  etiquette,  already  enshrined  in  his  nature, 
did  not  permit  him  to  come  ashore.  The  boat  was  so 
close  to  the  land  that  he  could  step  on  to  it  easily. 

She  leaned  down. 

"Pescator!" 

It  was  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper.  But  the  night 
was  so  intensely  still  that  he  heard  it.  Or,  if  not  that,  he 
felt  it.  His  shadow — so  it  seemed  in  the  shadow  of  the 
cliff — flitted  out  of  the  boat  and  disappeared. 

He  was  coming — to  have  that  talk  about  the  sea. 


CHAPTER   IX 

"BuoNA  sera,  Signorina." 

"Buona  sera,  Ruffo." 

She  did  not  feign  surprise  when  he  came  up  to  her. 

"So  you  fish  at  night?"  she  said.  "I  thought  the 
divers  for  frutti  di  mare  did  not  do  that." 

"Signorina,  I  have  been  taken  into  the  boat  of  Mandano 
Giuseppe." 

He  spoke  rather  proudly,  and  evidently  thought  she 
would  know  of  whom  he  was  telling  her.  "I  fish  for 
sarde  now." 

"Is  that  better  for  you?" 

"SI,  Signorina,  of  course." 

"I  am  glad  of  that." 

"SI,  Signorina." 

He  stood  beside  her  quite  at  his  ease.  To-night  he  had 
on  a  cap,  but  it  was  pushed  well  off  his  brow,  and  showed 
plenty  of  his  thick,  dark  hair. 

"When  did  you  see  me?"  she  asked. 

"Almost  directly,  Signorina." 

"And  what  made  you  look  tip?" 

"Signorina?" 

"Why  did  you  look  up  directly?" 

"Non  lo  so,  Signorina." 

"I  think  it  was  because  I  made  you  feel  that  I  was 
there,"  she  said.  "I  think  you  obey  me  without  know- 
ing it.  You  did  the  same  the  other  day." 

"Perhaps,  Signorina." 

"Have  you  smoked  all  the  cigarettes?" 
112 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

She  saw  him  smile,  showing  his  teeth. 

"Si,  Signorina,  long  ago.  I  smoked  them  the  same 
day." 

"You  shouldn't.  It  is  bad  for  a  boy,  and  you  are 
younger  than  I  am,  you  know." 

The  smile  grew  wider. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"I  don't  know,  Signorina." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  funny  to  be  younger  than  I  am?" 

"Si,  Signorina." 

"I  suppose  you  feel  quite  as  if  you  were  a  man?" 

"  If  I  could  not  work  as  well  as  a  man  Giuseppe  would 
not  have  taken  me  into  his  boat.  But  of  course  with  a 
lady  it  is  all  different.  A  lady  does  not  have  to  work. 
Poor  women  get  old  very  soon,  Signorina." 

"Your  mother,  is  she  old?" 

"My  mamma!  I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  suppose  she  is 
rather  old." 

He  seemed  to  be  considering. 

"Si,  Signorina,  my  mamma  is  rather  old.  But  then 
she  has  had  a  lot  of  trouble,  my  poor  mamma!" 

"I  am  sorry.     Is  she  like  you ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Signorina;  I  have  never  thought  about 
it.  What  does  it  matter?" 

"It  may  not  matter,  but  such  things  are  interesting 
sometimes." 

"Are  they,  Signorina?" 

Then,  evidently  with  a  polite  desire  to  please  her  and 
carry  on  the  conversation  in  the  direction  indicated  by 
her,  he  added: 

"And  are  you  like  your  Signora  Madre,  Signorina?" 

Vere  felt  inclined  to  smile,  but  she  answered,  quite 
seriously. 

"I  don't  believe  I  am.  My  mother  is  very  tall,  much 
taller  than  I  am,  and  not  so  dark.  My  eyes  are  much 
darker  than  hers  and  quite  different." 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  think  you  have  the  eyes  of  a  Sicilian,  Signorina." 

Again  Vere  was  conscious  of  a  simple  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  boy  to  be  gallant.  And  he  had  a  good  memory 
too.  He  had  not  forgotten  her  three-days' -old  claim  to 
Sicilian  blood.  The  night  mitigated  the  blunders  of  his 
temperament,  it  seemed.  Vere  could  not  help  being 
pleased.  There  was  something  in  her  that  ever  turned 
towards  the  Sicily  she  had  never  seen.  And  this  boy 
had  not  seen  Sicily  either. 

"Isn't  it  odd  that  you  and  I  have  never  seen  Sicily?" 
she  said,  "and  that  both  our  mothers  have?  And  mine 
is  all  English,  you  know." 

"My  mamma  would  be  very  glad  to  kiss  the  hand  of 
your  Signora  Mother,"  replied  Ruffo.  "I  told  her  about 
the  kind  ladies  who  gave  me  cigarettes,  and  that  the 
Signorina  had  never  seen  her  father.  When  she  heard 
that  the  Signorina  was  born  after  her  father  was  dead, 
and  that  her  father  had  died  in  Sicily,  she  said — my  poor 
mamma! — 'If  ever  I  see  the  Signorina's  mother,  I  shall 
kiss  her  hand.  She  was  a  widow  before  she  was  a  mother ; 
may  the  Madonna  comfort  her.'  My  mamma  spoke  just 
like  that,  Signorina.  And  then  she  cried  for  a  long  time. 
But  when  Patrigno  came  in  she  stopped  crying  at  once." 

"Did  she?     Why  was  that?" 

"I  don't  know,  Signorina." 

Vere  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said: 

"Is  your  Patrigno  kind  to  you,  Ruffo  ?" 

The  boy  looked  at  her,  then  swiftly  looked  away. 

"Kind  enough,  Signorina,"  he  answered. 

Then  they  both  kept  silence.  They  were  standing 
side  by  side  thus,  looking  down  rather  vaguely  at  the 
Saint's  Pool,  when  another  boat  floated  gently  into  it, 
going  over  to  the  far  side,  where  already  lay  the  two  boats 
at  the  feet  of  San  Francesco.  Vere  saw  it  with  indif- 
ference. She  was  accustomed  to  the  advent  of  the 
fishermen  at  this  hour.  Ruffo  stared  at  it  for  a  moment 

114 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

with  a  critical,  inquiring  gaze.  The  boat  drew  up  near 
the  land  and  stopped.  There  was  a  faint  murmur  of 
voices,  then  silence  again. 

The  Marchesino  had  told  the  two  sailors  that  they 
could  have  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep  before  beginning  to 
fish. 

The  men  lay  down,  shut  their  eyes,  and  seemed  to  slbep 
at  once.  But  Artois  and  the  Marchesino,  lounging  on  a 
pile  of  rugs  deftly  arranged  in  the  bottom  of  the  stern 
of  the  boat,  smoked  their  cigars  in  a  silence  laid  upon 
them  by  the  night  silence  of  the  Pool.  Neither  of  them 
had  as  yet  caught  sight  of  the  figures  of  Vere  and  Ruffo, 
which  were  becoming  more  clearly  relieved  as  the  moon 
rose  and  brought  a  larger  world  within  the  radiance  of 
its  light.  Artois  was  satisfied  that  the  members  of  the 
Casa  del  Mare  were  in  bed.  As  they  approached  the 
house  he  had  seen  no  light  from  its  windows.  The 
silence  about  the  islet  was  profound,  and  gave  him  the 
impression  of  being  in  the  very  heart  of  the  night.  And 
this  impression  lasted,  and  so  tricked  his  mind  that  he 
forgot  that  the  hour  was  not  really  late.  He  lay  back, 
lazily  smoking  his  cigar,  and  drinking  in  the  stark  beauty 
round  about  him,  a  beauty  delicately  and  mysteriously 
fashioned  by  the  night,  which,  as  by  a  miracle,  had  laid 
hold  of  bareness  and  barren  ugliness,  and  turned  them 
to  its  exquisite  purposes,  shrinking  from  no  material  in 
its  certainty  of  its  own  power  to  transform. 

The  Marchesino,  too,  lay  back,  with  his  great,  gray 
eyes  staring  about  him.  While  the  feelings  of  his  friend 
had  moved  towards  satisfaction,  his  had  undergone  a 
less  pleasant  change.  His  plan  seemed  to  be  going  awry, 
and  he  began  to  think  of  himself  as  of  a  fool.  What  had 
he  anticipated  ?  What  had  he  expected  of  this  expedi- 
tion ?  He  had  been ,  as  usual ,  politely  waiting  on  destiny. 
He  had  come  to  the  islet  in  the  hope  that  Destiny  would 
meet  him  there  and  treat  him  with  every  kindness  and 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

hospitality,  forestalling  his  desires.  But  lo!  he  was 
abandoned  in  a  boat  among  a  lot  of  taciturn  men,  while 
the  object  of  all  his  thoughts  and  pains,  his  plots  and 
hopes,  was,  doubtless,  hermetically  sealed  in  the  home  on 
the  cliff  above  him. 

Several  Neapolitan  words,  familiar  in  street  circles, 
ran  through  his  mind,  but  did  not  issue  from  his  lips, 
and  his  face  remained  perfectly  calm — almost  seraphic 
in  expression. 

Out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  he  stole  a  glance  at  ' '  caro 
Emilio. ' '  He  wished  his  friend  would  follow  the  example 
of  the  men  and  go  to  sleep.  He  wanted  to  feel  himself 
alone  in  wakefulness  and  unobserved.  For  he  was  not 
resigned  to  an  empty  fate.  The  voices  of  the  laughing 
women  at  the  Antico  Giuseppone  still  rang  through  his 
memory.  He  was  adventurous  by  nature.  What  he 
would  do  if  Emilio  would  cuily  slumber  he  did  not  know. 
But  it  was  certain  he  would  do  something.  The  islet, 
dark  and  distinct  in  outline  beneath  the  moon,  summoned 
him.  Was  he  a  Neapolitan  and  not  beneath  her  window  ? 
It  was  absurd.  And  he  was  not  at  all  accustomed  to 
control  himself  or  to  fight  his  own  impulses.  For  the 
moment  "caro  Emilio"  became  "maledetto  Emilio"  in 
his  mind.  Sleepless  as  Providence,  Emilio  reclined 
there.  A  slightly  distracted  look  came  into  the  Mar- 
chesino's  eyes  as  he  glanced  away  from  his  friend  and 
stared  once  more  at  the  islet,  which  he  longed  so  ar- 
dently to  invade. 

This  time  he  saw  the  figures  of  Vere  and  Ruffo  above 
him  in  the  moonlight,  which  now  sharply  relieved  them. 
He  gazed.  And  as  he  gazed  they  moved  away  from  the 
bridge,  going  towards  the  seat  where  Vere  had  been 
before  she  had  seen  Ruffo. 

Vere  had  on  a  white  dress. 

The  heart  of  the  Marchesino  leaped.  He  was  sure  it 
was  the  girl  of  the  white  boat.  Then  the  inhabitants  of 

116 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

the  house  on  the  islet  were  not  asleep,  were  not  even 
in  bed.  They — she  at  least,  and  that  was  all  he  cared 
for — were  out  enjoying  the  moon  and  the  sea.  How 
favorable  was  the  night!  But  who  was  with  her? 

The  Marchesino  had  very  keen  eyes.  And  now  he  used 
them  with  almost  fierce  intensity.  But  Ruffo  was  on 
the  far  side  of  Vere.  It  was  not  possible  to  discern  more 
than  that  he  was  male,  and  taller  than  the  girl  in  the 
white  dress. 

Jealousy  leaped  up  in  the  Marchesino,  that  quick  and 
almost  frivolous  jealousy  which,  in  the  Southerner,  can 
so  easily  deepen  into  the  deadliness  that  leads  to  crime. 
Not  for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  that  the  man  with  Vere 
was  a  lover.  This  was  a  blow  which,  somehow,  he  had 
not  expected.  The  girl  in  the  white  boat  had  looked  en- 
chantingly  young.  When  he  had  played  the  seal  for 
her  she  had  laughed  like  a  child.  He — even  he,  who 
believed  in  no  one's  simplicity,  made  sceptical  by  his  own 
naughtiness  so  early  developed  towards  a  fine  maturity ! 
— had  not  expected  anything  like  this.  And  these  Eng- 
lish, who  pride  themselves  upon  their  propriety,  their 
stiffness,  their  cold  respectability !  These  English  misses ! 

"Ouf!" 

It  was  out  of  the  Marchesino 's  mouth  before  he  was 
aware  of  it,  an  exclamation  of  cynical  disgust. 

"What's  the  matter,  amico  mio?"  said  Artois,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Niente!"  said  the  Marchesino,  recollecting  himself. 
"Are  not  you  going  to  sleep  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Artois,  throwing  away  his  cigar  end.  "I 
am.  And  you?" 

"I  too!" 

The  Marchesino  was  surprised  by  his  friend's  reply. 
He  did  not  understand  the  desire  of  Artois  not  to  have 
his  sense  of  the  romance  of  their  situation  broken  in  upon 
by  conversation  just  then.  The  romance  of  women  was 

117 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

not  with  Artois,  but  the  romance  of  Nature  was.  He 
wanted  to  keep  it.  And  now  he  settled  himself  a  little 
lower  in  the  boat,  under  the  shadow  of  its  side,  and  seemed 
to  be  giving  himself  to  sleep. 

The  Marchesino  thanked  the  Madonna,  and  made  his 
little  pretence  of  slumber  too,  but  he  kept  his  head  above 
the  gunwale,  leaning  it  on  his  arm  with  a  supporting 
cushion  beneath ;  and  though  he  really  did  shut  both  his 
eyes  for  a  short  time,  to  deceive  caro  Emilio,  he  very  soon 
opened  them  again,  and  gazed  towards  the  islet.  He 
could  not  see  the  two  figures  now.  Rage  seized  him. 
First  the  two  men  at  the  Antico  Giuseppone,  and  now 
this  man  on  the  islet!  Every  one  was  companioned. 
Every  one  was  enjoying  the  night  as  it  was  meant  to  be 
enjoyed.  He — he  alone  was  the  sport  of  "il  maledetto 
destino."  He  longed  to  commit  some  act  of  violence. 
Then  he  glanced  cautiously  round  without  moving. 

The  two  sailors  were  sleeping.  He  could  hear  their 
regular  and  rather  loud  breathing.  Artois  lay  quite 
still.  The  Marchesino  turned  his  body  very  carefully 
so  that  he  might  see  the  face  of  his  friend.  As  he  did  so 
Artois,  who  had  been  looking  straight  up  at  the  stars, 
shut  his  eyes,  and  simulated  sleep.  His  suspicion  of 
Doro,  that  this  expedition  had  been  undertaken  with 
some  hidden  motive,  was  suddenly  renewed  by  this  sly 
and  furtive  movement,  which  certainly  suggested  purpose 
and  the  desire  to  conceal  it. 

So  caro  Emilio  slept  very  peacefully,  and  breathed 
with  the  calm  regularity  of  a  sucking  child.  But  in  this 
sleep  of  a  child  he  was  presently  aware  that  the  boat 
was  moving — in  fact  was  being  very  adroitly  moved. 
Though  his  eyes  were  shut  he  felt  the  moonlight  leave 
his  face  presently,  and  knew  they  were  taken  by  the 
shadow  of  the  islet.  Then  the  boat  stopped. 

A  moment  later  Artois  was  aware  that  the  boat  con- 
tained three  people  instead  of  four. 

118 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  Marchesino  had  left  it  to  take  a  little  stroll  on 
shore. 

Artois  lay  still.  He  knew  how  light  is  the  slumber  of 
seamen  in  a  boat  with  the  wide  airs  about  them,  and  felt 
sure  that  the  sailors  must  have  been  waked  by  the  tour 
of  the  boat  across  the  Pool.  Yet  they  had  not  moved 
and  they  continued  apparently  to  sleep.  He  guesse(x 
that  a  glance  from  their  "Padrone"  had  advised  them 
not  to  wake.  And  this  was  the  truth. 

At  the  first  movement  of  the  boat  both  the  men  had 
looked  up  and  had  received  their  message  from  the 
Marchesino's  expressive  eyes.  They  realized  at  once 
that  he  had  some  design  which  he  wished  to  keep  from 
the  knowledge  of  his  friend,  the  forestiere.  Of  course  it 
must  be  connected  with  a  woman.  They  were  not 
particularly  curious.  They  had  always  lived  in  Naples, 
and  knew  their  aristocracy.  So  they  merely  returned 
the  Marchesino's  glance  with  one  of  comprehension  and 
composed  themselves  once  more  to  repose. 

The  Marchesino  did  not  come  back,  and  presently  Ar- 
tois lifted  himself  up  a  little,  and  looked  out. 

The  boat  was  right  under  the  lee  of  the  islet,  almost 
touching  the  shore,  but  the  sea  was  so  perfectly  still  that 
it  scarcely  moved,  and  was  not  in  any  danger  of  striking 
against  the  rock.  The  sailors  had  seen  that,  too,  before 
they  slept  again. 

Artois  sat  quite  up.  He  wondered  a  good  deal  what 
his  friend  was  doing.  One  thing  was  certain — he  was 
trespassing.  The  islet  belonged  to  Hermione,  and  no  one 
had  any  right  to  be  upon  it  without  her  invitation. 
Artois  had  that  right,  and  was  now  considering  whether 
or  not  he  should  use  it,  follow  the  Marchesino  and  tell  him 
— what  he  had  not  told  him — that  the  owner  of  the  islet 
was  the  English  friend  of  whom  he  had  spoken. 

For  Artois  the  romance  of  the  night  in  which  he  had 
been  revelling  was  now  thoroughly  disturbed.  He  looked 

119 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

again  towards  the  two  sailors,  suspecting  their  sleep. 
Then  he  got  up  quietly,  and  stepped  out  of  the  boat  onto 
the  shore.  His  doing  so  gave  a  slight  impetus  to  the 
boat,  which  floated  out  a  little  way  into  the  Pool.  But 
the  men  in  it  seemed  to  sleep  on. 

Artois  stood  still  for  a  moment  at  the  edge  of  the  sea. 
His  great  limbs  were  cramped,  and  he  stretched  them. 
Then  he  went  slowly  towards  the  steps.  He  reached  the 
plateau  before  the  Casa  del  Mare.  The  Marchesino 
was  not  there.  He  looked  up  at  the  house.  As  he 
did  so  the  front  door  opened  and  Hermione  came  out7 
wrapped  in  a  white  lace  shawl. 

"Emile?"  she  said,  stopping  with  her  hand  on  the 
door.  "Why — how  extraordinary!" 

She  came  to  him. 

"Have  you  come  to  pay  us  a  nocturnal  visit,  or — 
there's  nothing  the  matter?" 

"No,"  he  said. 

For  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  embarrassed 
with  Hermione.  He  took  her  hand. 

"I  don't  believe  you  meant  me  to  know  you  were  here," 
she  said,  guided  by  the  extraordinary  intuition  of  woman. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  he  answered,  "I  did  not  expect  to 
see  you.  I  thought  you  were  all  in  bed. ' ' 

"Oh  no.  I  have  been  on  the  terrace  and  in  the  garden. 
Vere  is  out  somewhere.  I  was  just  going  to  look  for  her. ' ' 

There  was  a  distinct  question  in  her  prominent  eyes  as 
she  fixed  them  on  him. 

"No,  I  haven't  seen  Vere,"  he  said,  answering  it. 

"Are  you  alone  ?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

"No.  You  remember  my  mentioning  my  friend,  the 
Marchesino  Panacci  ?  Well,  he  is  with  me.  We  were 
going  to  fish.  The  fishermen  suggested  our  sleeping  in 
the  Saint's  Pool  for  an  hour  of  two  first.  I  found  Doro 
gone,  and  came  to  look  for  him." 

There  was  still  a  faint  embarrassment  in  his  manner. 

120 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  believe  you  have  seen  him,"  he  added.  "He  was 
bathing  the  other  day  when  you  were  passing  in  the  boat, 
—I  think  it  was  you.  Did  you  see  a  young  man  who 
did  some  tricks  in  the  water?" 

"Oh  yes,  an  impudent  young  creature.  He  pretended 
to  be  a  porpoise  and  a  seal.  He  made  us  laugh.  Vere 
was  delighted  with  him.  Is  that  your  friend  ?  Where 
can  he  be?" 

"Where  is  Vere?"  said  Artois. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  suddenly  his  embarrassment 
passed  away. 

"You  don't  mean  that — ?" 

"My  friend,  you  know  what  these  Neapolitans  are. 
Doro  came  back  from  his  bathe  raving  about  Vere.  I 
did  not  tell  him  I  knew  her.  I  think — I  am  sure  he  has 
guessed  it,  and  much  more.  Let  us  go  and  find  him. 
It  seems  you  are  to  know  him.  E  il  destino." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  know  him?"  she  said,  as  they 
turned  away  from  the  house. 

"I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  real  reason  why  you 
should  not.  But  my  instinct  was  against  the  acquaint- 
ance. Where  can  Vere  be?  Does  she  often  come  out 
alone  at  night?" 

"Very  often.  Ah!  There  she  is,  beyond  the  bridge, 
and — is  that  the  Marchesino  Panacci  with  her  ?  Why — • 
no,  it's — " 

"  It  is  Ruffo,"  Artois  said. 

Vere  and  the  boy  were  standing  near  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  and  talking  earnestly  together,  but  as  Hermione 
and  Artois  came  towards  them  they  turned  round  as 
if  moved  by  a  mutual  impulse.  Ruffo  took  off  his  cap 
and  Vere  cried  out: 

"Monsieur  Emile!" 

She  came  up  to  him  quickly.  He  noticed  that  her  face 
looked  extraordinarily  alive,  that  her  dark  eyes  were 
fiery  with  expression. 

121 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Good-evening,  Vere,"  he  said. 

He  took  her  small  hand. 

"Buona  sera,  Ruffo,"  he  added. 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  saw  the  perfect 
simplicity  of  both. 

"Tell  me,  Vere,"  he  said.  "Have  you  seen  any  one 
on  the  islet  to-night?" 

"Yes,  just  now.     Why?     What  made  you  think  so?" 

"Well?" 

"A  man — a  gentleman  came.  I  told  him  he  was 
trespassing." 

Artois  smiled.  Ruffo  stood  by,  his  cap  in  his  hand, 
looking  attentively  at  Vere,  who  had  spoken  in  French. 
She  glanced  at  him,  and  suddenly  broke  into  Italian. 

"He  was  that  absurd  boy  we  saw  in  the  sea,  Madre, 
the  other  day,  who  pretended  to  be  a  seal,  and  made  me 
laugh.  He  reminded  me  of  it,  and  asked  me  if  I  didn't 
recognize  him." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  'No'  and  'Good-night.'" 

"And  did  he  go?"  asked  Artois. 

"No,  he  would  not  go.  I  don't  know  what  he  wanted. 
He  looked  quite  odd,  as  if  he  were  feeling  angry  inside, 
and  didn't  wish"  to  show  it.  And  he  began  trying  to 
talk.  But  as  I  didn't  really  know  him — after  all,  laugh- 
ing at  a  man  because  he  pretends  to  be  a  seal  is  scarcely 
knowing  him,  is  it,  Monsieur  Emile?" 

"No,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  smile. 

"I  said  'good-night'  again  in  such  a  way  that  he  had 
to  go." 

"And  so  he  went!"  said  Artois. 

"Yes.     Do  you  know  him,  Monsieur  Emile?" 

"Yes.     He  came  with  me  to-night." 

A  little  look  of  penitence  came  into  the  girl's  face. 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry." 

-'Why  should  you  be?" 

122 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Well,  he  began  saying  something  about  knowing 
friends  of  mine,  or — I  didn't  really  listen  very  much, 
because  Ruffo  was  telling  me  about  the  sea — and  I 
thought  it  was  all  nonsense.  He  was  absurdly  com- 
plimentary first,  you  see!  and  so,  when  he  began  about 
friends,  I  only  said  'good-night'  again.  And — and  I'm 
really  afraid  I  turned  my  back  upon  him.  And  now  he's 
a  friend  of  yours.  Monsieur  Emile!  I  am  sorry!" 

Already  the  Marchesino  had  had  that  lesson  of  which 
Artois  had  thought  in  Naples.  Artois  laughed  aloud. 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Vere.  My  friend  is  not  too  sen- 
sitive." 

"Buona  sera,  Signorina!  Buona  sera,  Signora!  Buon 
riposo!" 

It  was  Ruffo  preparing  to  go,  feeling  that  he  scarcely 
belonged  to  this  company,  although  he  looked  in  no  way 
shy,  and  had  been  smiling  broadly  at  Vere's  narrative 
of  the  discomfiture  of  the  Marchesino. 

"Ruffo,"  said  Hermione,  "you  must  wait  a  moment." 

"SI,  Signora?" 

"I  am  going  to  give  you  a  few  more  cigarettes." 

Vere  sent  a  silent  but  brilliant  "Thank  you"  to  her 
mother.  They  all  walked  towards  the  house. 

Vere  and  her  mother  were  in  front,  Artois  and  Ruffo 
behind.  Artois  looked  very  closely  and  even  curiously 
at  the  boy. 

"Have  I  ever  seen  you  before  ?"  he  asked,  as  they  came 
to  the  bridge. 

"Signore?" 

"Not  the  other  morning.  But  have  we  ever  met  in 
Naples?" 

"I  have  seen  you  pass  by  sometimes  at  the  Mergellina, 
Signore." 

"That  must  be  it  then!"  Artois  thought,  "I  have  seen 
you  there  without  consciously  noticing  you." 

"You  live  there?"  he  said. 

9  123 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Si,  Signore ;  I  live  with  my  mamma  and  my  Patrigno." 

"Your  Patrigno,"  Artois  said,  merely  to  continue  the 
conversation.  "Then  your  father  is  dead?" 

"Si,  Signore,  my  Babbo  is  dead." 

They  were  on  the  plateau  now,  before  the  house. 

"If  you  will  wait  a  moment,  Ruffo,  I  will  fetch  the 
cigarettes,"  said  Hermione. 

"Let  me  go,  Madre,"  said  Vere,  eagerly. 

"Very  well,  dear." 

The  girl  ran  into  the  house.  As  she  disappeared  they 
heard  a  quick  step,  and  the  Marchesino  came  hurrying 
up  from  the  sea.  He  took  off  his  hat  when  he  saw 
Hermione,  and  stopped. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,  Emilio." 

He  kept  his  hat  in  his  hand.  Evidently  he  had  re- 
covered completely  from  his  lesson.  He  looked  gay  and 
handsome.  Artois  realized  how  very  completely  the 
young  rascal's  desires  were  being  fulfilled.  But  of  course 
the  introduction  must  be  made.  He  made  it  quietly. 

"Marchese  Isidore  Panacci— -Mrs.  Delarey." 

The  Marchesino  bent  and  kissed  Hermione 's  hand. 
As  he  did  so  Vere  came  out  of  the  house,  her  hands  full 
of  Khali  Targa  cigarettes,  her  face  eager  at  the  thought 
of  giving  pleasure  to  Ruffo. 

"This  is  my  daughter,  Vere,"  Hermione  said.  "Vere, 
this  is  the  Marchese  Isidore  Panacci,  a  friend  of  Monsieur 
Emile's." 

The  Marchesino  went  to  kiss  Vere's  hand,  but  she  said: 

"I'm  very  sorry — look!" 

She  showed  him  that  they  were  full  of  cigarettes,  and 
so  escaped  from  the  little  ceremony.  For  those  watching 
it  was  impossible  to  know  whether  she  wished  to  avoid 
the  formal  salutation  of  the  young  man's  lips  or  not. 

"Here,  Ruffo!"  she  said.  She  went  up  to  the  boy. 
"Put  your  hands  together." 

Ruffo  gladly  obeyed.  He  curved  his  brown  hands 
124 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

into  a  cup,  and  Vere  filled  this  cup  with  the  big  cigarettes, 
while  Hermione,  Artois,  and  the  Marchesino  looked  on; 
each  one  of  them  with  a  fixed  attention  which — surely — 
the  action  scarcely  merited.  But  there  was  something 
about  these  two,  Vere  and  the  boy,  which  held  the  eyes 
and  the  mind. 

"Good -night,  Ruffo.  You  must  carry  them  to  the 
boat.  They'll  be  crushed  if  you  put  them  into  your 
trousers-pocket." 

"Si,  Signorina!" 

He  waited  a  moment.  He  wanted  to  salute  them,  but 
did  not  know  how  to.  That  was  evident.  His  expres^- 
sive  eyes,  his  whole  face  told  it  to  them. 

Artois  suddenly  set  his  lips  together  in  his  beard.  For 
an  instant  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  years  had  rolled 
back,  that  he  was  in  London,  in  Caminiti's  restaurant, 
that  he  saw  Maurice  Delarey,  with  the  reverential  ex- 
pression on  his  face  that  had  been  so  pleasing.  Yes, 
the  boy  Ruffo  looked  like  him  in  that  moment,  as  he 
stood  there,  wishing  to  do  his  devoir,  to  be  polite,  but 
not  knowing  how  to. 

"Never  mind,  Ruffo."  It  was  Vere's  voice.  "We 
understand!  or — shall  I?"  A  laughing  look  came  into 
her  face.  She  went  up  to  the  boy  and,  with  a  delicious, 
childish  charm  and  delicacy,  that  quite  removed  the 
action  from  impertinence,  she  took  his  cap  off.  "There!" 
She  put  it  gently  back  on  his  dark  hair.  "Now  you've 
been  polite  to  us.  Buona  notte!" 

"Buona  notte,  Signorina." 

The  boy  ran  off,  half  laughing,  and  carrying  carefully 
the  cigarettes  in  his  hands  still  held  together  like  a  cup. 

Hermione  and  Artois  were  smiling.  Artois  felt  some- 
thing for  Vere  just  then  that  he  could  hardly  have  ex- 
plained, master  though  he  was  of  the  explanation  of  the 
feelings  of  man.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  purity, 
and  the  beauty,  and  the  whimsical  unself consciousness, 

125 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  the  touchingness  of  youth  that  is  divine,  appeared 
in  that  little,  almost  comic  action  of  the  girl.  He  loved 
her  for  the  action,  because  she  was  atye  to  perform  it 
just  like  that.  And  something  in  him  suddenly  adored 
youth  in  a  way  that  seemed  new  to  his  heart. 

"Well,"  said  Hermione,  when  RufTo  had  disappeared. 
"Will  you  come  in?  I'm  afraid  all  the  servants  are  in 
bed,  but — " 

"No,  indeed  it  is  too  late,"  Artois  said. 

Without  being  aware  of  it  he  spoke  with  an  authority 
that  was  almost  stern. 

"We  must  be  off  to  our  fishing,"  he  added.  "Good- 
night. Good-night,  Vere." 

"Good-night,  Signora." 

The  Marchesino  bowed,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He 
kissed  Hermione's  hand  again,  but  he  did  not  try  to  take 
Vere's. 

"Good-night,"  Hermione  said. 

A  glance  at  Artois  had  told  her  much  that  he  was 
thinking. 

"Good-night,  Monsieur  Emile,"  said  Vere.  "Good- 
night, Marchese.  Buona  pesca!" 

She  turned  and  followed  her  mother  into  the  house. 

"Che  simpatica!" 

It  was  the  Marchesino 's  voice,  breathing  the  words 
through  a  sigh:  "Che  simpatica  Signorina!"  Then  an 
idea  seemed  to  occur  to  him,  and  he  looked  at  his  friend 
reproachfully.  "And  you  knew  the  girl  with  the  perfect 
little  nose,  Emilio — all  the  time  you  knew  her!" 

"And  all  the  time  you  knew  I  knew  her!"  retorted 
Artois. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  the  eyes  and  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Emilio,  you  are  the  devil!  I  will  never  forgive  you. 
You  do  not  trust  me." 

"Caro  amico,  I  do  trust  you — always  to  fall  in  love 
126 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

with  every  girl  you  meet.     But " — -and  his  voice  changed 
—"the  Signorina  is  a  child.     Remember  that,  Doro." 

They  were  going  down  the  steps  to  the  sea.  Almost 
as  Artois  spoke  they  reached  the  bottom,  and  saw  their 
boat  floating  in  the  moonlight  nearly  in  the  centre  of  the 
Pool.  The  Marchesino  stood  still. 

"My  dear  Emilio,"  he  said,  staring  at  Artois  with  his 
great  round  eyes,  "you  make  me  wonder  whether  you 
know  women." 

Artois  felt  amused. 

"Really?"  he  said. 
.     "Really!  and  yet  you  write  books." 

"Writing  books  does  not  always  prove  that  one  knows 
much.  But  explain  to  me." 

They  began  to  stroll  on  the  narrow  space  at  the  sea 
edge.  Close  by  lay  the  boat  to  which  Ruffo  belonged. 
The  boy  was  already  in  it,  and  they  saw  him  strike  a 
match  and  light  one  of  the  cigarettes.  Then  he  lay  back 
at  his  ease,  smoking,  and  staring  up  at  the  moon. 

"A  girl  of  sixteen  is  not  a  child,  and  I  am  sure  the 
Signorina  is  sixteen.  But  that  is  not  all.  Emilio,  you 
do  not  know  the  Signorina." 

Artois  repressed  a  smile.  The  Marchesino  was  per- 
fectly in  earnest. 

"And  you — do  you  know  the  Signorina?"  Artois 
asked. 

"Certainly  I  know  her,"  returned  the  Marchesino  with 
gravity. 

They  reached  Ruffo's  boat.  As  they  did  so,  the  Mar- 
chesino glanced  at  it  with  a  certain  knowing  impudence 
that  was  peculiarly  Neapolitan. 

' '  When  I  came  to  the  top  of  the  islet  the  Signorina  was 
with  that  boy,"  the  Marchesino  continued. 

"Well?"  said  Artois. 

"Oh,  you  need  not  be  angry,  Emilio  caro." 

"I  am  not  angry,"  said  Artois. 

127 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

ftor  was  he.  It  is  useless  to  be  angry  with  racial 
characteristics,  racial  points  of  view.  He  knew  that 
well.  The  Marchesino  stared  at  him. 

"No,  I  see  you  are  not." 

"The  Signorina  was  with  that  boy.  She  has  talked  to 
him  before.  He  has  dived  for  her.  He  has  sung  for  her! 
She  has  given  him  cigarettes,  taken  from  her  mother's 
box,  with  her  mother's  consent.  Everything  the  Sig- 
norina does  her  mother  knows  and  approves  of.  You 
saw  the  Signora  send  the  Signorina  for  more  cigarettes  to 
give  the  boy  to-night.  Ebbene?" 

"Ebbene.     They  are  English!" 

And  he  laughed. 

"Madre  mia!" 

He  laughed  again,  seized  his  mustaches,  twisted  them, 
and  went  on. 

"They  are  English,  but  for  all  that  the  Signorina  is  a 
woman.  And  as  to  that  boy — " 

"Perhaps  he  is  a  man." 

"Certainly  he  is.  Dio  mio,  the  boy  at  least  is  a 
Neapolitan." 

"No,  he  isn't." 

"He  is  not?" 

"He's  a  Sicilian." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  was  here  the  other  day  when  he  was  diving  for 
frutti  di  mare." 

"I  have  seen  him  at  the  Mergellina  ever  since  he  was 
a  child." 

"He  says  he  is  a  Sicilian." 

"Boys  like  that  say  anything  if  they  can  get  something 
by  it.  Perhaps  he  thought  you  liked  the  Sicilians  better 
than  the  Neapolitans.  But  anyhow — Sicilian  or  Neapoli- 
tan, it  is  all  one!  He  is  a  Southerner,  and  at  fifteen  a 
Southerner  is  already  a  man.  I  was." 

"I  know  it.  But  you  were  proving  to  me  that  the 
128 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Signorina  is  a  woman.  The  fact  that  she,  an  English 
girl,  is  good  friends  with  that  fisher  boy  does  not  prove 
it." 

"Ah,  well!" 

The  Marchesino  hesitated. 

"I  had  seen  the  Signorina  before  I  came  to  meet  you 
at  the  house." 

"Had  you?" 

"Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"I  knew  she  told  you." 

"What?" 

"She  told  you!  she  told  you!  She  is  birbante.  She 
is  a  woman,  for  she  pretended  as  only  a  woman  can  pre- 
tend." 

"What  did  she  pretend?" 

"That  she  was  not  pleased  at  my  coming,  at  my  rind- 
ing out  where  she  lived,  and  seeking  her.  Why,  Emilio, 
even  when  I  was  in  the  sea,  when  I  was  doing  the  seal, 
I  could  read  the  Signorina's  character.  She  showed  me 
from  the  boat  that  she  wanted  me  to  come,  that  she 
\vishedtoknowme.  Ah,  che  simpatica!  Che  simpatica 
ragazza!" 

The  Marchesino  looked  once  more  at  Ruffo. 

"Come  here  a  minute!"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  not 
wishing  to  wake  the  still  sleeping  fishermen. 

The  boy  jumped  lightly  out  and  came  to  them.  When 
he  stood  still  the  Marchesino  said,  in  his  broadest 
Neapolitan: 

"Now  then,  you  tell  me  the  truth!  I'm  a  Neapolitan, 
not  a  forestiere.  You've  seen  me  for  years  at  the 
Mergellina." 

"Si,  Signore." 

"You're  a  Napolitano." 

"No,  Signore.     I  am  a  Sicilian." 

There  was  a  sound  of  pride  in  the  boy's  voice. 

129 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  am  quite  sure  he  speaks  the  truth,"  Artois  said,  in 
French. 

"Why  do  you  come  here?"  asked  the  Marchesino. 

"Signore,  I  come  to  fish." 

"For  cigarettes?" 

"No,  Signore,  for  sardc.     Buona  notte,  Signore." 

He  turned  away  from  them  with  decision,  and  went 
back  to  his  boat. 

"He  is  a  Sicilian,"  said  Artois.     "I  would  swear  to  it." 

"Why?     Hark  at  his  accent." 

"He  is  a  Sicilian!" 

"But  why  are  you  so  sure?" 

Artois  only  said : 

"Are  you  going  to  fish?" 

"Emilio,  I  cannot  fish  to-night.  My  soul  is  above 
such  work  as  fishing.  It  is  indeed.  Let  us  go  back  to 
Naples." 

"Va  bene." 

Artois  was  secretly  glad.  He,  too,  had  no  mind — or 
was  it  no  heart  ?— for  fishing  that  night,  after  the  episode 
of  the  islet.  They  hailed  the  sailors,  who  were  really 
asleep  this  time,  and  were  soon  far  out  on  the  path  of  the 
moonlight  setting  their  course  towards  Naples. 


CHAPTER   X 

ON  the  following  morning  Hermione  and  Vere  went 
for  an  excursion  to  Capri.  They  were  absent  from  the 
island  for  three  nights.  When  they  returned  they  found 
a  card  lying  upon  the  table  in  the  little  hall — ' '  Marchese 
Isidore  Panacci  di  Torno" — and  Gaspare  told  them  that 
it  had  been  left  by  a  Signore,  who  had  called  on  the  day 
of  their  departure,  and  had  seemed  very  disappointed  to 
hear  that  they  were  gone. 

"I  do  not  know  this  Signore,"  Gaspare  added,  rather 
grimly. 

Vere  laughed,  and  suddenly  made  her  eyes  look  very 
round,  and  staring,  and  impudent. 

"He's  like  that,  Gaspare,"  she  said. 

"Vere!"  said  her  mother. 

Then  she  added  to  Gaspare: 

"The  Marchese  is  a  friend  of  Don  Emilio's.  Ah!  and 
here  is  a  letter  from  Don  Emilio." 

It  was  lying  beside  the  Marchese's  card  with  some  other 
letters.  Hermione  opened  it  first,  and  read  that  Artois 
had  been  unexpectedly  called  away  to  Paris  on  business, 
but  intended  to  return  to  Naples  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
to  spend  the  whole  summer  on  the  Bay. 

' '  I  feel  specially  that  this  summer  I  should  like  to  be 
near  you,"  he  wrote.  "I  hope  you  wish  it." 

At  the  end  of  the  letter  there  was  an  allusion  to  the 
Marchesino,  "that  gay  and  admirably  characteristic 
Neapolitan  product,  the  Toledo  incarnate." 

There  was  not  a  word  of  Vere. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Hermione  read  the  letter  aloud  to  Vere,  who  was  stand- 
ing beside  her,  evidently  hoping  to  hear  it.  When  she 
had  finished,  Vere  said: 

"I  am  glad  Monsieur  Emile  will  be  here  all  the  sum- 
mer." 

"Yes." 

"But  why  specially  this  summer,  Madre?" 

"I  am  not  sure  what  he  means  by  that,"  Hermione 
answered. 

But  she  remembered  the  conversation  in  the  Grotto 
of  Virgil,  and  wondered  if  her  friend  thought  she  needed 
the  comfort  of  his  presence. 

"Well,  Madre?" 

Vere's  bright  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  mother. 

"Well,  Vere?     What  is  it?" 

"Is  there  no  message  for  me  from  Monsieur  Emile  ?" 

"No,  Vere." 

"How  forgetful  of  him!  But  never  mind!"  She 
went  up-stairs,  looking  disappointed. 

Hermione  re-read  the  letter.  She  wondered,  perhaps 
more  than  Vere,  why  there  was  no  message  for  the  child. 
The  child — she  was  still  calling  Vere  that  in  her  mind, 
even  after  the  night  conversation  with  Gaspare.  Two 
or  three  times  she  re-read  that  sentence,  "I  feel  specially 
that  this  summer  I  should  like  to  be  near  you,"  and 
considered  it ;  but  she  finally  put  the  letter  away  with  a 
strong  feeling  that  most  of  its  meaning  lay  between  the 
lines,  and  that  she  had  not,  perhaps,  the  power  to  in- 
terpret it. 

Vere  had  said  that  Emile  was  forgetful.  He  might 
be  many  things,  but  forgetful  he  was  not.  One  of  his 
most  characteristic  qualities  was  his  exceptionally  sharp 
consciousness  of  himself  and  of  others.  Hermione  knew 
that  he  was  incapable  of  writing  to  her  and  forgetting 
Vere  while  he  was  doing  so. 

She  did  not  exactly  know  why,  but  the  result  upon  her 
132 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

of  this  letter  was  a  certain  sense  of  depression,  a  slight 
and  vague  foreboding.  And  yet  she  was  glad,  she  was 
even  thankful,  to  know  that  her  friend  was  going  to  spend 
the  summer  on  the  Bay.  She  blamed  herself  for  her 
melancholy,  telling  herself  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
words  of  Artois  to  make  her  sad.  Yet  she  continued  to 
feel  sad,  to  feel  as  if  some  grievous  change  were  at  hand, 
as  if  she  had  returned  to  the  island  to  confront  some  un- 
toward fate.  It  was  very  absurd  of  her.  She  told  her- 
self that. 

The  excursion  to  Capri  had  been  a  cheerful  -one.  She 
had  enjoyed  it.  But  all  the  time  she  had  been  watching 
Vere,  studying  her,  as  she  had  not  watched  and  studied 
her  before.  Something  had  suddenly  made  her  feel  un- 
accustomed to  Vere.  It  might  be  the  words  of  Gaspare, 
the  expression  in  the  round  eyes  of  the  Marchesino,  or 
something  new,  or  newly  apparent,  in  Vere.  She  did 
not  know.  But  she  did  know  that  now  the  omission  of 
Artois  to  mention  Vere  in  his  letter  seemed  to  add  to  the 
novelty  of  the  child  for  her. 

That  seemed  strange,  yet  it  was  a  fact.  How  absolute- 
ly mysterious  are  many  of  the  currents  in  our  being, 
Hermione  thought.  They  flow  far  off  in  subterranean 
channels,  unseen  by  us,  and  scarcely  ever  realized,  but 
governing,  carrying  our  lives  along  upon  their  deeps 
towards  the  appointed  end. 

Gaspare  saw  that  his  Padrona  was  not  quite  as  usual, 
and  looked  at  her  with  large-eyed  inquiry,  but  did  not  at 
first  say  anything.  After  tea,  however,  when  Hermione 
was  sitting  alone  in  the  little  garden  with  a  book,  he  said 
to  her  bluntly: 

"Che  ha  Lei?" 

Hermione  put  the  book  down  in  her  lap. 

"That  is  just  what  I  don't  know,  Gaspare." 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  well." 

'But  I  believe  I  am,  perfectly  well.     You  know  I  am 
133 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

always  well.  I  never  even  have  fever.  And  you  have 
that  sometimes." 

He  continued  to  look  at  her  searchingly. 

"You  have  something." 

He  said  it  firmly,  almost  as  if  he  were  supplying  her 
with  information  which  she  needed  and  had  lacked. 

Hermione  made  a  sound  that  was  like  a  little  laugh, 
behind  which  there  was  no  mirth. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  added  that  phrase  which  is  so 
often  upon  Sicilian  lips: 

"Ma  forse  e  il  destine." 

Gaspare  moved  his  head  once  as  if  in  acquiescence. 

"When  we  are  young,  Signora,"  he  said,  "we  do  what 
we  want,  but  we  have  to  want  it.  And  we  think  we  are 
very  free.  And  when  we  are  old  we  don't  feel  to  want 
anything,  but  we  have  to  do  things  just  the  same. 
Signora,  we  are  not  free.  It  is  all  destiny." 

And  again  he  moved  his  head  solemnly,  making  his 
liquid  brown  eyes  look  more  enormous  than  usual. 

"It  is  all  destiny,"  Hermione  repeated,  almost 
dreamily. 

Just  then  she  felt  that  it  was  so — that  each  human 
being,  and  she  most  of  all,  was  in  the  grasp  of  an  in- 
flexible, of  an  almost  fierce  guide,  who  chose  the  paths, 
and  turned  the  feet  of  each  traveller,  reluctant  or  not, 
into  the  path  the  will  of  the  guide  had  selected.  And 
now,  still  dreamily,  she  wondered  whether  she  would 
ever  try  to  rebel  if  the  path  selected  for  her  were  one 
that  she  hated  or  feared,  one  that  led  into  any  horror  of 
darkness,  or  any  horror  of  too  great  light.  For  light, 
too,  can  be  terrible,  a  sudden  great  light  that  shines  piti- 
lessly upon  one's  own  soul.  She  was  of  those  who 
possess  force  and  impulse,  and  she  knew  it.  She  knew, 
too,  that  these  are  often  rebellious.  But  to-day  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  might  believe  so  much  in  destiny, 

134 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

be  so  entirely  certain  of  the  inflexible  purpose  and  power 
of  the  guide,  that  her  intellect  might  forbid  her  to  rebel, 
because  of  rebellion's  fore-ordained  inutility.  Neverthe- 
less, she  supposed  that  if  it  was  her  instinct  to  rebel,  she 
would  do  so  at  the  psychological  moment,  even  against 
the  dictates  of  her  intellect. 

Gaspare  remained  beside  her  quietly.  He  often  stood 
near  her  after  they  had  been  talking  together,  and 
calmly  shared  the  silence  with  her.  She  liked  that.  It 
gave  her  an  impression  of  his  perfect  confidence  in  her, 
his  perfect  ease  in  her  company. 

"Don't  you  ever  think  that  you  can  put  a  knife  into 
Destiny,  Gaspare,"  she  asked  him  presently,  using  an 
image  he  would  be  likely  to  understand,  "as  you  might 
put  a  knife  into  a  man  who  tried  to  force  you  to  do  some- 
thing you  didn't  wish  to  do?" 

"Signora,  what  would  be  the  use?  The  knife  is  no 
good  against  Destiny,  nor  the  revolver  either.  And  I 
have  the  permesso  to  carry  one,"  he  added,  with  a  smile, 
as  if  he  realized  that  he  was  being  whimsical. 

"Well,  then,  we  must  just  hope  that  Destiny  will  be 
very  kind  to  us,  be  a  friend  to  us,  a  true  comrade.  I 
shall  hope  that  and  so  must  you." 

"Si,   Signora." 

He  realized  that  the  conversation  was  finished,  and 
went  quietly  away. 

Hermione  kept  the  letter  of  Artois.  When  he  came 
back  to  the  Bay  she  wanted  to  show  it  to  him,  to  ask  him 
to  read  for  her  the  meaning  between  its  lines.  She  put 
it  away  in  her  writing-table  drawer,  and  then  resolved 
to  forget  the  peculiar  and  disagreeable  effect  it  had 
made  upon  her. 

A  fortnight  passed  away  before  Artois'  return.  June 
came  in  upon  the  Bay,  bringing  with  it  a  more  vivid  life 
in  the  environs  of  Naples.  As  the  heat  of  the  sun  in- 
creased the  vitality  of  the  human  motes  that  danced  in 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

its  beams  seemed  to  increase  also,  to  become  more 
blatant,  more  persistent.  The  wild  oleander  was  in 
flower.  The  thorny  cactus  put  forth  upon  the  rim  of  its 
grotesque  leaves  pale  yellow  blossoms  to  rival  the  red 
geraniums  that  throng  about  it  insolently  in  Italy.  In 
the  streets  of  the  city  ragged  boys  ran  by  crying,  ' '  Fra- 
gole!"  and  holding  aloft  the  shallow  baskets  in  which  the 
rosy  fruit  made  splashes  of  happy  color.  The  carters 
wore  bright  carnations  above  their  dusty  ears.  The 
children  exposed  their  bare  limbs  to  the  sun,  and  were 
proud  when  they  were  given  morsels  of  ice  wrapped  up 
in  vine  leaves  to  suck  in  the  intervals  of  their  endless 
dances  and  their  play.  On  the  hill  of  Posilipo  the 
Venetian  blinds  of  the  houses,  in  the  gardens  clouded  by 
the  rounded  dusk  of  the  great  stone  pines,  were  thrust 
back,  the  windows  were  thrown  open,  the  glad  sun-rays 
fell  upon  the  cool  paved  floors,  over  which  few  feet  had 
trodden  since  the  last  summer  died.  Loud  was  the  call 
of  "Aqua!"  along  the  roads  where  there  were  buildings, 
and  all  the  lemons  of  Italy  seemed  to  be  set  forth  in 
bowers  to  please  the  eyes  with  their  sharp,  yet  soothing 
color,  and  tempt  the  lips  with  their  poignant  juice. 
Already  in  the  Galleria,  an  "avviso"  was  prominently 
displayed,  stating  that  Ferdinando  Bucci,  the  famous 
maker  of  Sicilian  ice-creams,  had  arrived  from  Palermo 
for  the  season.  In  the  Piazza,  del  Plebiscite,  hundreds 
of  chairs  were  ranged  before  the  bandstand,  and  before 
the  kiosk  where  the  women  sing  on  the  nights  of  summer 
near  the  Caffe  Turco.  The  "Margherita"  was  shutting 
up.  The  "Eldorado"  was  opening.  And  all  along  the 
sea,  from  the  vegetable  gardens  protected  by  brushwood 
hedges  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city  towards  Portici,  to  the 
balconies  of  the  "Mascotte,"  under  the  hill  of  Posilipo, 
the  wooden  bathing  establishments  were  creeping  out 
into  the  shallow  waters,  and  displaying  proudly  to  the 
passers-by  above  their  names:  " Stabilimento  Elena," 

136 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"  Stabilimento  Donn'  Anna,"  "  Stabilimento  delle  Si- 
rene,"  "II  piccolo  Paradise." 

And  all  along  the  sea  by  night  there  was  music. 

From  the  Piazza,  before  the  Palace  the  band  of  the 
Caffe  Gambrinus  sent  forth  its  lusty  valses.  The  pos- 
turing women  of  the  wooden  kiosk  caught  up  the  chain 
of  sound,  and  flung  it  on  with  their  shrill  voices  down  the 
hill  towards  Santa  Lucia,  where,  by  the  waterside  and  the 
crowding  white  yachts,  the  itinerant  musicians  took  it 
into  the  keeping  of  their  guitars,  their  mandolins,  their 
squeaky  fiddles,  and  their  hot  and  tremulous  voices. 
The  "Valse  Bleu,"  "Santa  Lucia,"  "Addio,  mia  bella 
Napoli,"  "La  Frangese,"  "Sole  Mio,"  "Marechiaro," 
"Carolina,"  "La  Ciociara";  with  the  chain  of  lights  the 
chain  of  songs  was  woven  round  the  bay;  from  the 
Eldorado,  past  the  Hotel  de  Vesuve,  the  Hotel  Royal, 
the  Victoria,  to  the  tree-shaded  alleys  of  the  Villa 
Nazionale,  to  the  Mergellina,  where  the  naked  urchins  of 
the  fisherfolk  took  their  evening  bath  among  the  resting 
boats,  to  the  "Scoglio  di  Frisio,"  and  upwards  to  the 
Ristorante  della  Stella,  and  downwards  again  to  the 
Ristorante  del  Mare,  and  so  away  to  the  point,  to  the 
Antico  Giuseppone. 

Long  and  brilliant  was  the  chain  of  lamps,  and  long 
and  ardent  was  the  chain  of  melodies  melting  one  into  the 
other,  and  stretching  to  the  wide  darkness  of  the  night 
and  to  th3  great  stillness  of  the  sea.  The  night  was  alive 
with  music,  with  the  voices  that  beat  like  hearts  over- 
charged with  sentimental  longings. 

But  at  the  point  where  stood  the  Antico  Giuseppone 
the  lights  and  the  songs  died  out.  And  beyond  there 
was  the  mystery,  the  stillness  of  the  sea. 

And  there,  beyond  the  chain  of  lights,  the  chain  of 
melodies,  the  islet  lay  in  its  delicate  isolation;  never- 
theless, it,  too,  was  surely  not  unaware  of  the  coming  of 
summer.  For  even  here,  Nature  ran  up  her  flag  to 

137 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

honor  her  new  festival.  High  up  above  the  rock  on  the 
mainland  opposite  there  was  a  golden  glory  of  ginestra, 
the  broom  plant,  an  expanse  of  gold  so  brilliant,  so 
daring  in  these  bare  surroundings,  that  Vere  said,  when 
she  saw  it: 

"There  is  something  cruel  even  in  beauty,  Madre. 
Do  you  like  successful  audacity?" 

"I  think  I  used  to  when  I  was  your  age,"  said  Her- 
mione.  "Anything  audacious  was  attractive  to  me 
then.  But  now  I  sometimes  see  through  it  too  easily, 
and  want  something  quieter  and  a  little  more  mys- 
terious." 

"The  difference  between  the  Marchesino  and  Monsieur 
Emile?"  said  the  girl,  with  a  little  laugh. 

Hermione  laughed,  too. 

"Do  you  think  Monsieur  Emile  mysterious?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes— certainly.     Don't  you?" 

"I  have  known  him  so  intimately  for  so  many  years." 

"Well,  but  that  does  not  change  him.     Does  it?" 

"No.  But  it  may  make  him  appear  very  different- 
ly to  me  from  the  way  in  which  he  shows  himself  to 
others." 

"I  think  if  I  knew  Monsieur  Emile  for  centuries  I 
should  always  wonder  about  him." 

"What  is  it  in  Emile  that  makes  you  wonder?"  asked 
her  mother,  with  a  real  curiosity. 

"The  same  thing  that  makes  me  wonder  when  I  look 
at  a  sleepy  lion." 

"You  call  Emile  sleepy!"  said  Hermione. 

"Oh,  not  his  intellect,  Madre!  Of  course  that  is 
horribly,  horribly  wide  awake." 

And  Vere  ran  off  to  her  room,  or  the  garden,  or  the 
Saint's  Pool — who  knew  where  ? — leaving  her  mother  to 
say  to  herself,  as  she  had  already  said  to  herself  in  these 
last  days  of  the  growing  summer,  "When  I  said  that  to 

138 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Emile,  what  a  fool  I  was!"  She  was  thinking  of  her 
statement  that  there  was  nothing  in  her  child  that  was 
hidden  from  her.  As  if  in  answer  to  that  statement, 
Vere  was  unconsciously  showing  to  her  day  by  day  the 
folly  of  it.  Emile  had  said  nothing.  Hermione  re- 
membered that,  and  realized  that  his  silence  had  been 
caused  by  his  disagreement.  But  why  had  he  not  told 
her  she  was  mistaken?  Perhaps  because  she  had  just 
been  laying  bare  to  him  the  pain  that  was  in  her  heart. 
Her  call  had  been  for  sympathy,  not  merely  for  truth. 
She  wondered  whether  she  was  a  coward.  Since  they  had 
returned  from  Capri  the  season  and  Vere  had  surely 
changed.  Then,  and  always  afterwards,  Hermione 
thought  of  those  three  days  in  Capri  as  a  definite  barrier, 
a  dividing  line  between  two  periods.  Already,  while  in 
Capri,  she  had  begun  to  watch  her  child  in  a  new  way. 
But  that  was,  perhaps,  because  of  an  uneasiness,  part- 
ly nervous,  within  herself.  In  Capri  she  might  have 
been  imagining.  Now  she  was  not  imagining,  she  was 
realizing. 

Over  the  sea  came  to  the  islet  the  intensity  of  summer. 
Their  world  was  changing.  And  in  this  changing  world 
Vere  was  beginning  to  show  forth  more  clearly  than 
before  her  movement  onward — whither? 

As  yet  the  girl  herself  was  unconscious  of  her  mother's 
new  watchfulness.  She  was  happy  in  the  coming  of 
summer,  and  in  her  happiness  was  quite  at  ease,  like  a 
kitten  that  stretches  itself  luxuriously  in  the  sun.  To 
Vere  the  world  never  seemed  quite  awake  till  the  summer 
came.  Only  in  the  hot  sunshine  did  there  glow  the  truth- 
fulness and  the  fulness  of  life.  She  shared  it  with  the 
ginestra.  She  saw  and  felt  a  certain  cruelty  in  the  gold, 
but  she  did  not  fear  or  condemn  it,  or  wish  it  away. 
For  she  was  very  young,  and  though  she  spoke  of  cruelty 
she  did  not  really  understand  it.  In  it  there  was  force, 
and  force  already  appealed  to  the  girl  as  few  things  did. 
10  139 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

As,  long  ago,  her  father  had  gloried  in  the  coming  of 
summer  to  the  South,  she  gloried  in  it  now.  She  looked 
across  the  Pool  of  the  Saint  to  the  flood  of  yellow  that 
was  like  sunlight  given  a  body  upon  the  cliff  opposite, 
and  her  soul  revelled  within  her,  and  her  heart  rose  up 
and  danced,  alone,  and  yet  as  if  in  a  glad  company  of 
dancers,  all  of  whom  were  friends.  Her  brain,  too, 
sprang  to  the  alert.  The  sun  increased  the  feeling  of 
intelligence  within  her. 

And  then  she  thought  of  her  room,  of  the  hours  she 
passed  shut  in  there,  and  she  was  torn  by  opposing 
impulses. 

But  she  told  no  one  of  them.  Vere  could  keep  her 
secrets,  although  she  was  a  girl. 

How  the  sea  welcomed  the  summer!  To  many  this 
home  on  the  island  would  have  seemed  an  arid,  in- 
hospitable place,  desolate  and  lost  amid  a  cruel  world 
of  cliffs  and  waters.  It  was  not  so  to  Vere.  For  she 
entered  into  the  life  of  the  sea.  She  knew  all  its 
phases,  as  one  may  know  all  the  moods  of  a  person 
loved.  She  knew  when  she  would  find  it  intensely  calm, 
at  early  morning  and  when  the  evening  approached. 
At  a  certain  hour,  with  a  curious  regularity,  the  breeze 
came,  generally  from  Ischia,  and  turned  it  to  vivacity. 
A  temper  that  was  almost  frivolous  then  possessed  it, 
and  it  broke  into  gayeties  like  a  child's.  The  waves 
were  small,  but  they  were  impertinently  lively.  They 
made  a  turmoil  such  as  urchins  make  at  play.  Heedless 
of  reverence,  but  not  consciously  impious,  they  flung 
themselves  at  the  feet  of  San  Francesco,  casting  up  a 
tiny  tribute  of  spray  into  the  sun. 

Then  Vere  thought  that  the  Saint  looked  down  with 
pleasure  at  them,  as  a  good  old  man  looks  at  a  crowd  of 
laughing  children  who  have  run  against  him  in  the 
street,  remembering  his  own  youth.  For  even  the 
Saints  were  young!  And,  after  that,  surely  the  waves 

140 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

were  a  little  less  boisterous.  She  thought  she  noted  a 
greater  calm.  But  perhaps  it  was  only  that  the  breeze 
was  dying  down  as  the  afternoon  wore  on. 

She  often  sat  and  wondered  which  she  loved  best — 
the  calm  that  lay  upon  the  sea  at  dawn,  or  the  calm  that 
was  the  prelude  to  the  night.  Silvery  were  these  dawn? 
of  the  summer  days.  Here  and  there  the  waters  gleamed 
like  the  scales  of  some  lovely  fish.  Mysterious  lights, 
like  those  in  the  breast  of  the  opal,  shone  in  the  breast 
of  the  sea,  stirred,  surely  travelled  as  if  endowed  with 
life,  then  sank  away  to  the  far-off  kingdoms  that  man 
may  never  look  on.  Those  dawns  drew  away  the  girl's 
soul  as  if  she  were  led  by  angels,  or,  like  Peter,  walked 
upon  the  deep  at  some  divine  command.  She  felt  that 
though  her  body  was  on  the  islet  the  vital  part  of  her, 
the  real  "I,"  was  free  to  roam  across  the  great  expanse 
that  lay  flat  and  still  and  delicately  mysterious  to  the 
limits  of  eternity. 

She  had  strange  encounters  there,  the  soul  of  her,  as 
she  went  towards  the  East. 

The  evening  calm  was  different.  There  was,  Vere 
thought,  less  of  heaven  about  it,  but  perhaps  more  of  the 
wonder  of  this  world.  And  this  made  her  feel  as  if  she 
had  been  nearer  to  heaven  at  her  birth  than  she  would 
be  at  her  death.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  defilements 
of  life.  Her  purity  of  mind  was  very  perfect ;  but,  taking 
a  parable  from  Nature,  she  applied  it  imaginatively  to 
Man,  and  she  saw  him  covered  with  dust  because  of  his 
journey  through  the  world.  Poor  man! 

And  then  she  pitied  herself  too.  But  that  passed. 
For  if  the  sea  at  evening  held  most  of  the  wonder  of  this 
world,  it  was  worth  the  holding.  Barely  would  she 
substitute  the  heavenly  mysteries  for  it.  The  fisher- 
men's boats  were  dreams  upon  a  dream.  Each  sail  was 
akin  to  a  miracle.  A  voice  that  called  across  the  water 
from  a  distance  brought  tears  to  Vere's  eyes  when  the 

141 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

magic  was  at  its  fullest.  For  it  seemed  to  mean  all 
things  that  were  tender,  all  things  that  were  wistful,  all 
things  that  trembled  with  hope — that  trembled  with 
love. 

With  summer  Vere  could  give  herself  up  to  the  sea, 
and  not  only  imaginatively  but  by  a  bodily  act. 

Every  day,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day,  she  put  on  her 
bathing-dress  in  the  Casa  del  Mare,  threw  a  thin  cloak 
over  her,  and  ran  down  to  the  edge  of  the  sea,  where 
Gaspare  was  waiting  with  the  boat.  Hermione  did  not 
bathe.  It  did  not  suit  her  now.  And  Gaspare  was 
Vere's  invariable  companion.  He  had  superintended 
her  bathing  when  she  was  little.  He  had  taught  her  to 
swim.  And  with  no  one  else  would  he  ever  trust  his 
Padroncina  when  she  gave  herself  to  the  sea.  Some- 
times he  would  row  her  out  to  a  reef  of  rocks  in  the  open 
water  not  many  yards  from  the  island,  and  she  would 
dive  from  them.  Sometimes,  if  it  was  very  hot,  he  would 
take  her  to  the  Grotto  of  Virgil.  Sometimes  they  went 
far  out  to  sea,  and  then,  like  her  father  in  the  Ionian  Sea 
before  the  Casa  delle  Sirene,  Vere  would  swim  away  and 
imagine  that  this  was  her  mode  of  travel,  that  she  was 
journeying  alone  to  some  distant  land,  or  that  she  had 
been  taken  by  the  sea  forever. 

But  very  soon  she  would  be  sure  to  hear  the  soft  splash 
of  oars  following  her,  and,  looking  back,  would  see  the 
large,  attentive  eyes  of  the  faithful  Gaspare  cautiously 
watching  her  dark  head.  Then  she  would  lift  up  one 
hand,  and  call  to  him  to  go,  and  say  she  did  not  want 
him,  that  she  wished  to  be  alone,  smiling  and  yet  im- 
perious. He  only  followed  quietly  and  inflexibly.  She 
would  dive.  She  would  swim  under  water.  She  would 
swim  her  fastest,  as  if  really  anxious  to  escape  him.  It 
was  a  game  between  them  now.  But  always  he  was 
there,  intent  upon  her  safety. 

Vere  did  not  know  the  memories  within  Gaspare  that 

142 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

made  him  such  a  guardian  to  the  child  of  the  Padrone  he 
had  loved;  but  she  loved  him  secretly  for  his  watchful- 
ness, even  though  now  and  then  she  longed  to  be  quite 
alone  with  the  sea.  And  this  she  never  was  when 
bathing,  for  Hermione  had  exacted  a  promise  from  her 
not  to  go  to  bathe  without  Gaspare.  In  former  days 
Vere  had  once  or  twice  begun  to  protest  against  this 
prohibition,  but  something  in  her  mother's  eyes  had 
stopped  her.  And  she  had  remembered: 

"Father  was  drowned  in  the  sea." 

Then,  understanding  something  of  what  was  in  her 
mother's  heart,  she  threw  eager  arms  about  her,  and 
anxiously  promised  to  be  good. 

One  afternoon  of  the  summer,  towards  the  middle  of 
June,  she  prolonged  her  bathe  in  the  Grotto  of  Virgil 
until  Gaspare  used  his  authority,  and  insisted  on  her 
coming  out  of  the  water. 

"One  minute  more,  Gaspare!     Only  another  minute!" 

"Ma  Signorina!" 

She  dived.     She  came  up. 

"Ma  veramente  Signorina!" 

She  dived  again. 

Gaspare  waited.  He  was  standing  up  in  the  boat  with 
the  oars  in  his  hands,  ready  to  make  a  dash  at  his 
Padroncina  directly  she  reappeared,  but  she  was  wily, 
and  came  up  behind  the  boat  with  a  shrill  cry  that 
startled  him.  He  looked  round  reproachfully  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Signorina,"  he  said,  turning  the  boat  round,  "you 
are  like  a  wicked  baby  to-day." 

"What  is  it,  Gaspare?"  she  asked,  this  time  letting 
him  come  towards  her. 

' '  I  say  that  you  are  like  a  wicked  baby.  And  only 
the  other  day  I  was  saying  to  the  Signora — " 

"What  were  you  saying?" 

She  swam  to  the  boat  and  got  in. 

143 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"What?"  she  repeated,  sitting  down  on  the  gunwale, 
while  he  began  to  row  towards  the  islet. 

"I  was  saying  that  you  are  nearly  a  woman  now." 

Vere  seemed  extraordinarily  thin  and  young  as  she 
sat  there  in  her  dripping  bathing-dress,  with  her  small, 
bare  feet  distilling  drops  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
and  her  two  hands,  looking  drowned,  holding  lightly  to 
the  wood  on  each  side  of  her.  Even  Gaspare,  as  he 
spoke,  was  struck  by  this,  and  by  the  intensely  youthful 
expression  in  the  eyes  that  now  regarded  him  curiously. 

"Really,  Gaspare?" 

Vere  asked  the  question  quite  seriously. 

"SI,  Signorina." 

"A  woman!" 

She  looked  down,  as  if  considering  herself.  Her  wet 
face  had  become  thoughtful,  and  for  a  moment  she  said 
nothing. 

"And  what  did  mother  say?"  she  asked,  looking  up 
again.  "But  I  know.  I  am  sure  she  laughed  at  you." 

Gaspare  looked  rather  offended.  His  expressive  face, 
which  always  showed  what  he  was  feeling,  became  al- 
most stern,  and  he  began  to  row  faster  than  before. 

"Why  should  the  Signora  laugh?  Am  I  an  im- 
becile, Signorina?" 

"You?" 

She  hastened  to  correct  the  impression  she  had  made. 

"Why,  Gaspare,  you  are  our  Providence!" 

"Va  bene,  but — " 

"I  only  meant  that  I  am  sure  Madre  wouldn't  agree 
with  you.  She  thinks  me  quite  a  child.  I  know  that." 

She  spoke  with  conviction,  nodding  her  head. 

"Perhaps  the  Signora  does  not  see." 

Vere  smiled. 

"Gaspare,  I  believe  you  are  horribly  sharp,"  she  said. 
"  I  often  think  you  notice  everything.  You  are  birbante. 
I  am  half  afraid  of  you." 

144 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Gaspare  smiled,  too.  He  had  quite  recovered  his 
good  humor.  It  pleased  him  mightily  to  fancy  he  had 
seen  what  the  Padrona  had  not  seen. 

"  I  am  a  man,  Signorina,"  he  observed,  quietly.  "And 
I  do  not  speak  till  I  know.  Why  should  I  ?  And  I  was 
at  your  baptism.  When  we  came  back  to  the  house  I 
put  rive  lire  on  the  bed  to  bring  you  luck,  although  you 
were  not  a  Catholic.  But  it  is  just  the  same.  Your 
Saint  will  take  care  of  you." 

"Well,  but  if  I  am  almost  a  woman — what  then, 
Gaspare?" 

"Signorina?" 

"Mustn't  I  play  about  any  more?  Mustn't  I  do  just 
what  I  feel  inclined  to,  as  I  did  in  the  Grotto  just  now?" 

"There  is  no  harm  in  that,  Signorina.  I  was  only 
joking  then.  But — " 

He  hesitated,  looking  at  her  firmly  with  his  unfaltering 
gaze. 

' '  But  what  ?  I  believe  you  want  to  scold  me  about 
something.  I  am  sure  you  do." 

"No,  Signorina,  never!  But  women  cannot  talk  to 
everybody,  as  children  can.  Nobody  thinks  anything 
of  what  children  say.  People  only  laugh  and  say  '  Ecco, 
it's  a  baby  talking.'  But  when  we  are  older  it  is  all 
different.  People  pay  attention  to  us.  We  are  of  more 
importance  then." 

He  did  not  mention  Ruffo.  He  was  too  delicate  to  do 
that,  for  instinctively  he  understood  how  childish  his 
Padroncina  still  was.  And,  at  that  moment,  Vere  did 
not  think  of  Ruffo.  She  wondered  a  little  what  Gaspare 
was  thinking.  That  there  was  some  special  thought  be- 
hind his  words,  prompting  them,  she  knew.  But  she 
did  not  ask  him  what  it  was,  for  already  they  were  at  the 
islet,  and  she  must  run  in,  and  put  on  her  clothes.  Gas- 
pare put  her  cloak  carefully  over  her  shoulders,  and  she 
hurried  lightly  up  the  steps  and  into  her  room.  Her 

MS 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

mother  was  not  in  the  house.  She  had  gone  to  Naples 
that  day  to  see  some  poor  people  in  whom  she  was  in- 
terested. So  Vere  was  quite  alone.  She  took  off  her 
bathing-dress,  and  began  to  put  on  her  things  rather 
slowly.  Her  whole  body  was  deliciously  lulled  by  its 
long  contact  with  the  sea.  She  felt  gloriously  calm  and 
gloriously  healthy  just  then,  but  her  mind  was  working 
vigorously  though  quietly. 

A  woman!  The  word  sounded  a  little  solemn  and 
heavy,  and,  somehow,  dreadfully  respectable.  And 
she  thought  of  her  recent  behavior  in  the  Grotto,  and 
laughed  aloud.  She  was  so  very  slim,  too.  The  word 
woman  suggested  to  her  some  one  more  bulky  than  she 
was.  But  all  that  was  absurd,  of  course.  She  was  think- 
ing very  frivolously  to-day. 

She  put  on  her  dress  and  fastened  it.  At  the  age  of 
sixteen  she  had  put  up  her  hair,  but  now  it  was  still  wet, 
and  she  had  left  it  streaming  over  her  shoulders.  In  a 
moment  she  was  going  out  onto  the  cliff  to  let  the  sun 
dry  it  thoroughly.  The  sun  was  so  much  better  than 
any  towel.  With  her  hair  down  she  really  looked  like 
a  child,  whatever  Gaspare  thought.  She  said  that  to 
herself,  standing  for  a  moment  before  the  glass.  Vere 
was  almost  as  divinely  free  from  self-consciousness  as 
her  father  had  been.  But  the  conversation  in  the 
boat  had  made  her  think  of  herself  very  seriously,  and 
now  she  considered  herself,  not  without  keen  interest. 

"I  am  certainly  not  a  wicked  baby,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "But  I  don't  think  I  look  at  all  like  a  woman." 

Her  dark  eyes  met  the  eyes  in  the  glass  and  smiled. 

"And  yet  I  shall  be  seventeen  quite  soon.  What 
can  have  made  Gaspare  talk  like  that  to  Madre?  I 
wonder  what  he  said  exactly.  And  then  that  about 
'women  cannot  talk  to  everybody  as  children  can.'  Now 
what — ?" 

Ruffo  came  into  her  mind. 

146 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Ah!"  she  said,  aloud. 

The  figure  in  the  glass  made  a  little  gesture.  It  threw 
up  its  hand. 

"That 'sit!     That's  it!     Gaspare  thinks — " 

' '  Signorina !     Signorina ! ' ' 

Gaspare's  voice  was  speaking  outside  the  door.  And 
now  there  came  a  firm  knock.  Vere  turned  round,  rather 
startled.  She  had  been  very  much  absorbed  by  her 
colloquy. 

"What  is  it,  Gaspare?" 

"Signorina,  there's  a  boat  coming  in  from  Naples  with 
Don  Emilio  in  it." 

"Don  Emilio!  He's  come  back!  Oh!"  There  was  a 
pause.  Then  she  cried  out,  "Capital!  Capital!" 

She  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

,      "Just   think   of   Don   Emilio's   being   back   already, 
Gaspare.     But  Madre!     She  will  be  sorry." 

"Signorina?" 

"Why?     What's  the  matter?" 

"Are  you  coming  like  that?" 

"What? — Oh,  you  mean  my  hair?" 

"Si,  Signorina." 

"Gaspare,  you  ought  to  have  been  a  lady's  maid! 
Go  and  bring  in  Don  Emilio  to  Madre's  room.  And — 
wait — you're  not  to  tell  him  Madre  is  away.  Now 
mind!" 

"Va  bene,  Signorina." 

He  went  away. 

"  Shall  I  put  up  my  hair  ?" 

Vere  went  again  to  the  glass,  and  stood  considering 
herself. 

"For  Monsieur  Emile!  No,  it's  too  absurd!  Gaspare 
really  is  ...  I  sha'n't!" 

And  she  ran  out  just  as  she  was  to  meet  Artois. 


CHAPTER   XI 

» 

WHEN  she  reached  her  mother's  sitting-room  Artois 
was  already  there  speaking  to  Gaspare  by  a  window. 
He  turned  rather  quickly  as  Vere  came  in,  and  exclaimed: 

"Vere!     Why—" 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "  Gaspare  hasn't  gone!" 

A  look  almost  of  dread,  half  pretence  but  with  some 
reality  in  it,  too,  came  into  her  face. 

"Gaspare,  forgive  me!  I  was  in  such  a  hurry.  And 
it  is  only  Don  Emilio!" 

Her  voice  was  coaxing.  Gaspare  looked  at  his 
Padroncina  with  an  attempt  at  reprobation ;  but  his  nose 
twitched,  and  though  he  tried  to  compress  his  lips  they 
began  to  stretch  themselves  in  a  smile. 

' '  Signorina !     Signorina ! "  he  exclaimed .     ' '  Madonna ! ' ' 

On  that  exclamation  he  went  out,  trying  to  make 
his  back  look  condemnatory. 

"Only  Don  Emilio!"  Artois  repeated. 

Vere  went  to  him,  and  took  and  held  his  hand  for  a 
moment. 

"Yes — only!  That's  my  little  compliment.  Madre 
would  say  of  you,  'He's  such  an  old  shoe!'  Such  com- 
pliments come  from  the  heart,  you  know." 

She  still  held  his  hand. 

"I  should  have  to  put  my  hair  up  for  anybody  else. 
And  Gaspare  wanted  me  to  for  you." 

Artois  was  looking  rather  grave  and  tired.  She  noticed 
that  now,  and  dropped  his  hand  and  moved  towards  a 
bell. 

148 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Tea!"  she  said,  "all  alone  with  me — for  a  treat!" 

"Isn't  your  mother  in?" 

"No.  She's  gone  to  Naples.  I'm  very,  very  sorry. 
Make  the  best  of  it,  Monsieur  Emile,  for  the  sake  of  n^y 
amour  propre.  I  said  I  was  sorry — but  that  was  only 
for  you,  and  Madre." 

Artois  smiled. 

"Is  an  old  shoe  a  worthy  object  of  gross  flattery?" 
he  said. 

"No." 

"Then—" 

"Don't  be  cantankerous,  and  don't  be  subtle,  because 
I've  been  bathing." 

"I  notice  that." 

"And  I  feel  so  calm  and  delicious.  Tea,  please, 
Giulia." 

The  plump,  dark  woman  who  had  opened  the  door 
smiled  and  retreated. 

"So  calm  and  so  delicious,  Monsieur  Emile,  and  as  if 
I  were  made  of  friendliness  from  top  to  toe." 

"The  all-the-world  feeling.     I  know." 

He  sat  down,  rather  heavily. 

' '  You  are  tired.     When  did  you  come  ?" 

"I  arrived  this  morning.  It  was  hot  travelling,  and 
I  shared  my  compartment  in  the  wagon-lit  with  a  Ger- 
man gentleman  very  far  advanced  in  several  unaesthetic 
ailments.  Basta!  Thank  Heaven  for  this.  Calm  and 
delicious!" 

His  large,  piercing  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Vere. 

"And  about  twelve,"  he  added,  "or  twelve-and-a- 
half." 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you.  I  am  not  speaking  of  myself,  though  I 
believe  I  am  calm  also." 

"I  am  a  woman — practically." 

"Practically?" 

149 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Yes;  isn't  that  the  word  people  always  put  in  when 
they  mean  'that's  a  lie '  ?" 

"You  mean  you  aren't  a  woman!  This  afternoon  I 
must  agree  with  you." 

"It's  the  sea!  But  just  now,  when  you  were  coming, 
I  was  looking  at  myself  in  the  glass  and  saying,  '  You're 
a  woman' — solemnly,  you  know,  as  if  it  was  a  dreadful 
truth." 

Artois  had  sat  down  on  a  sofa.  He  leaned  back  now 
with  his  hands  behind  his  head.  He  still  looked  at  Vere, 
and,  as  he  did  so,  he  heard  the  faint  whisper  of  the  sea. 

"Child  of  nature,"  he  said — "call  yourself  that.  It 
covers  any  age,  and  it's  blessedly  true." 

Giulia  came  in  at  this  moment  with  tea.  She  smiled 
again  broadly  on  Artois,  and  received  and  returned  his 
greeting  with  the  comfortable  and  unembarrassed  friend- 
liness of  the  Italian  race.  As  she  went  out  she  was  still 
smiling. 

4 '  Addio  to  the  German  gentleman  with  the  unaesthetic 
ailments!"  said  Artois. 

An  almost  boyish  sensation  of  sheer  happiness  in- 
vaded him.  It  made  him  feel  splendidly  untalkative. 
And  he  felt  for  a  moment,  too,  as  if  his  intellect  lay  down 
to  sleep. 

"Cara  Giula!"  he  added,  after  a  rapturous  silence. 

"What?" 

"Carissima  Giulia!" 

"Yes,  Giulia  is— " 

44 They  all  are,  and  the  island,  and  the  house  upon  it, 
and  this  clear  yellow  tea,  and  this  brown  toast,  and  this 
butter  from  Lombardy.  They  all  are." 

"I  believe  you  are  feeling  good  all  over,  Monsieur 
Emile." 

"San  Gennaro  knows  I  am." 

He  drank  some  tea,  and  ate  some  toast,  spreading  the 
butter  upon  it  with  voluptuous  deliberation. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Then  I'm  sure  he's  pleased." 

"Paris,  hateful  Paris!" 

"Oh,  but  that's  abusive.  A  person  who  feels  good  all 
over  should  not  say  that." 

"You  are  right,  Vere.  But  when  are  you  not  right? 
You  ought  always  to  wear  your  hair  down,  mon  enfant, 
and  always  to  have  just  been  bathing." 

"And  you  ought  always  to  have  just  been  trav- 
elling." 

"  It  is  true  that  a  dreadful  past  can  be  a  blessing  as  well 
as  a  curse.  It  is  profoundly  true.  Why  have  I  never 
realized  that  before?" 

"If  I  am  twelve  and  a  half,  I  think  you  are  about — • 
about — " 

"For  the  love  of  the  sea  make  it  under  twenty,  Vere." 

"Nineteen,  then." 

"Were  you  going  to  make  it  under  twenty?" 

"Yes,  I  was." 

"I  don't  believe  you.  Yes,  I  do,  I  do!  You  are  an 
artist.  You  realize  that  truth  is  a  question  of  feeling, 
not  a  question  of  fact.  You  penetrate  beneath  the  gray 
hairs  as  the  prosaic  never  do.  This  butter  is  delicious! 
And  to  think  that  there  have  been  moments  when  I 
have  feared  butter,  when  I  have  kept  an  eye  upon  a 
corpulent  future.  Give  me  some  more,  plenty  more." 

Vere  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  tea-table,  but  it 
shook.  She  drew  it  back,  and  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  said  Artois,  with  bur- 
lesque majesty. 

"At  you.  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Monsieur 
Emile  ?  How  can  you  be  so  foolish  ?" 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  with  her  hair  streaming 
about  her,  and  her  thin  body  quivered,  as  if  the  sense  of 
fun  within  her  were  striving  to  break  through  its  prison 
walls. 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"This,"  said  Artois,  "this  is  sheer  impertinence.  I 
venture  to  inquire  for  butter,  and — 

"To  inquire!  One,  two,  three,  four — five  pats  of 
butter  right  in  front  of  you!  And  you  inquire — !" 

Artois  suddenly  sent  out  a  loud  roar  to  join  her  child- 
ish treble. 

The  tea  had  swept  away  his  previous  sensation  of 
fatigue,  even  the  happy  stolidity  that  had  succeeded 
it  for  an  instant.  He  felt  full  of  life  and  gayety,  and 
a  challenging  mental  activity.  A  similar  challenging 
activity,  he  thought,  shone  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  op- 
posite to  him. 

"Thank  God  I  can  still  be  foolish!"  he  exclaimed. 
"And  thank  God  that  there  are  people  in  the  world  de- 
void of  humor.  My  German  friend  was  without  humor. 
Only  that  fact  enabled  me  to  endure  his  prodigious 
collection  of  ailments.  But  for  the  heat  I  might  even 
have  revelled  in  them.  He  was  asthmatic,  without 
humor;  dyspeptic,  without  humor.  He  had  a  bad  cold 
in  the  head,  without  humor,  and  got  up  into  the  top 
berth  with  two  rheumatic  legs  and  a  crick  in  the  back, 
without  humor.  Had  he  seen  the  fun  of  himself,  the 
fun  would  have  meant  much  less  to  me." 

"You  cruel  person!" 

"There  is  often  cruelty  in  humor — perhaps  not  in 
yours,  though,  yet." 

"Why  do  you  say — yet,  like  that?" 

"The  hair  is  such  a  kindly  veil  that  I  doubt  the  exist- 
ence of  cruelty  behind  it." 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  almost  tender  and  paternal 
gentleness. 

"I  don't  believe  you  could  ever  be  really  cruel,  Mon- 
sieur Emile." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  think  you  are  too  intelligent." 

"Why  should  that  prevent  me?" 

IS2 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Isn't  cruelty  stupid,  unimaginative?" 

"Often.  But  it  can  be  brilliant,  artful,  intellectual, 
full  of  imagination.  It  can  be  religious.  It  can  be 
passionate.  It  can  be  splendid.  It  can  be  almost 
everything." 

"Splendid!" 

"Like  Napoleon's  cruelty  to  France.  But  why 
should  I  educate  you  in  abominable  knowledge?" 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  thrusting  forward  her  firm  little 
chin,  "I  have  no  faith  in  mere  ignorance." 

"Yet  it  does  a  great  deal  for  those  who  are  not 
ignorant." 

"How?" 

"It  shows  them  how  pretty,  how  beautiful  even,  some- 
times, was  the  place  from  which  they  started  for  their 
journey  through  the  world." 

Vere  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  sparkle  of  fun 
had  died  out  of  her  eyes,  which  had  become  dark  with 
the  steadier  fires  of  imagination.  The  strands  of  her 
thick  hair,  falling  down  on  each  side  of  her  oval  face, 
gave  to  it  a  whimsically  mediaeval  look,  suggestive  of 
legend.  Her  long-fingered,  delicate,  but  strong  little 
hands  were  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  did  not  move.  It 
was  evident  that  she  was  thinking  deeply. 

"I  believe  I  know,"  she  said,  at  last.  "Yes,  that  was 
my  thought,  or  almost." 

"When?" 

She  hesitated,  looking  at  him,  not  altogether  doubt- 
fully, but  with  a  shadow  of  reserve,  which  might  easily, 
he  fancied,  grow  deeper,  or  fade  entirely  away.  He  saw 
the  resolve  to  speak  come  quietly  into  her  mind. 

"You  know,  Monsieur  Emile,  I  love  watching  the  sea," 
she  said,  rather  slowly  and  carefully.  "Especially  at 
dawn,  and  in  the  evening  before  it  is  dark.  And  it  al- 
ways seems  to  me  as  if  at  dawn  it  is  more  heavenly  than 
it  is  after  the  day  has  happened,  though  it  is  so  very 

153 


lovely  then.  And  sometimes  that  has  made  me  feel  that 
our  dawn  is  our  most  beautiful  time — as  if  we  were  near- 
est the  truth  then.  And,  of  course,  that  is  when  we  are 
most  ignorant,  isn't  it  ?  So  I  suppose  I  have  been  think- 
ing a  little  bit  like  you.  Haven't  I?" 

She  asked  it,  earnestly.  Artois  had  never  heard  her 
speak  quite  like  this  before,  with  a  curious  deliberation 
that  was  nevertheless  without  self -consciousness.  Be- 
fore he  could  answer  she  added,  abruptly,  as  if  correcting, 
or  even  almost  condemning  herself: 

"I  can  put  it  much  better  than  that.     I  have." 

Artois  leaned  forward.  Something,  he  did  not  quite 
know  what,  made  him  feel  suddenly  a  deep  interest  in 
what  Vere  said — -a  strong  curiosity  even. 

"You  have  put  it  much  better?"  he  said. 

Vere  suddenly  looked  conscious.  A  faint  wave  of  red 
went  over  her  face  and  down  to  her  small  neck.  Her 
hands  moved  and  parted.  She  seemed  half  ashamed  of 
something  for  a  minute. 

"Madre  doesn't  know,"  she  murmured,  as  if  she  were 
giving  him  a  reason  for  something.  "It  isn't  interest- 
ing," she  added.  "Except,  of  course,  to  me." 

Artois  was  watching  her. 

"I  think  you  really  want  to  tell  me,"  he  said  now. 

"Oh  yes,  in  a  way  I  do.  I  have  been  half  wanting  to 
for  a  long  time — but  only  half." 

"And  now?" 

She  looked  at  him,  but  almost  instantly  looked  down 
again,  with  a  sort  of  shyness  he  had  never  seen  in  her 
before.  And  her  eyes  had  been  full  of  a  strange  and 
beautiful  sensitiveness. 

"Never  mind,  Vere,"  he  said,  quickly,  obedient  to  those 
eyes,  and  responding  to  their  delicate  subtlety.  "We  all 
have  our  righteous  secrets,  and  should  all  respect  the 
righteous  secrets  of  others." 

"Yes,  I  think  we  should.  And  I  know  you  would  be 

154 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

the  very  last,  at  least  Madre  and  you,  to — I  think  I'm 
being  rather  absurd,  really."  The  last  words  were  said 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone  to  determination,  as  if 
Vere  were  taking  herself  to  task.  "I'm  making  a  lot  of 
almost  nothing.  You  see,  if  I  am  a  woman,  as  Gaspare 
is  making  out,  I'm  at  any  rate  a  very  young  one,  am  I 
not?" 

"The  youngest  that  exists." 

As  he  said  that  Artois  thought,  "Mon  Dieu!  If  the 
Marchesino  could  only  see  her  now!" 

"If  humor  is  cruel,  Monsieur  Emile,"  Vere  continued, 
"you  will  laugh  at  me.  For  I  am  sure,  if  I  tell  you — 
and  I  know  now  I'm  going  to — you  will  think  this  fuss  is 
as  ridiculous  as  the  German's  cold  in  the  head,  and  poor 
legs,  and  all.  I  wrote  that  about  the  sea." 

She  said  the  last  sentence  with  a  sort  of  childish  de- 
fiance. 

"Wait,"  said  Artois.     "Now  I  begin  to  understand." 

"What?" 

"All  those  hours  spent  in  your  room.  Your  mother 
thought  you  were  reading." 

"No,"  she  said,  still  rather  defiantly;  "I've  been  writ- 
ing that,  and  other  things — about  the  sea." 

"How?     In  prose?" 

"No.     That's  the  worst  of  it,  I  suppose." 

And  again  the  faint  wave  of  color  went  over  her  face 
to  her  neck. 

"Do  you  reallv  feel  so  criminal?  Then  what  ought  I 
to  feel?" 

"You?  Now  that  is  really  cruel!"  she  cried,  getting  up 
quickly,  almost  as  if  she  meant  to  hurry  away. 

But  she  only  stood  there  in  front  of  him,  near  the 
window. 

"Never  mind!"  she  said.  "Only  you  remember  that 
Madre  tried.  She  has  never  said  much  about  it  to  me. 
But  now  and  then  from  just  a  word  I  know  that  she  feeib 
"  JS5 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

bad,  that  she  wishes  very  much  she  could  do  something. 
Only  the  other  day  she  said  to  me, '  We  have  the  instinct, 
men  the  vocabulary.'  She  was  meaning  that  you  had. 
She  even  told  me  to  ask  you  something  that  I  had  asked 
her,  and  she  said,  'I  feel  all  the  things  that  he  can  ex- 
plain.' And  there  was  something  in  her  voice  that 
hurt  me — for  her.  And  Madre  is  so  clever.  Isn't  she 
clever?" 

"Yes." 

"And  if  Madre  can't  do  things,  you  can  imagine  that 
I  feel  rather  absurd  now  that  I'm  telling  you." 

"Yes,  being  just  as  you  are,  Vere,  I  can  quite  imagine 
that  you  do.  But  we  can  have  sweet  feelings  of  ab- 
surdity that  only  arise  from  something  moral  within  us, 
a  moral  delicacy.  However,  would  you  like  me  to  look 
at  what  you  have  been  writing  about  the  sea?" 

"Yes,  if  you  can  do  it  quite  seriously." 

"I  could  not  do  it  in  any  other  way." 

"Then— thank  you." 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  not  without  a  sort  of  simple 
dignity  that  was  utterly  removed  from  conceit  or  pre- 
tentiousness. 
.    What  a  strange  end,  this,  to  their  laughter! 

Vere  was  away  several  minutes,  during  which  at  first 
Artois  sat  quite  still,  leaning  back,  with  his  great  frame 
stretched  out,  and  his  hands  once  more  behind  his  head. 
His  intellect  was  certainly  very  much  awake  now,  and  he 
was  setting  a  guard  upon  it,  to  watch  it  carefully,  lest 
it  should  be  ruthless,  even  with  Vere.  And  was  he  not 
setting  also  another  guard  to  watch  the  softness  of  his 
nature,  lest  it  should  betray  him  into  foolish  kindness  ? 

Yet,  after  a  minute,  he  said  to  himself  that  he  was 
wasting  his  time  in  both  these  proceedings.  For 
Vere's  eyes  were  surely  a  touchstone  to  discover  hon- 
est)''. There  is  something  merciless  in  the  purity  of  un- 
tarnished youth.  What  can  it  not  divine  at  moments  ? 

156 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Artois  poured  out  another  cup  of  tea  and  drank  it, 
considering  the  little  funny  situation.  Vere  and  he  with 
a  secret  from  Hermione  shared  between  them!  Vere 
submitting  verses  to  his  judgment!  He  remembered 
Hermione's  half-concealed  tragedy,  which,  of  course,  had 
been  patent  to  him  in  its  uttermost  nakedness.  Even 
Vere  had  guessed  something  of  it.  Do  we  ever  really 
hide  anything  from  every  one  ?  And  yet  each  one  breaths 
mystery  too.  The  assertive  man  is  the  last  of  fools.  Of 
that  at  least  Artois  just  then  felt  certain. 

If  Vere  should  really  have  talent !  He  did  not  expect 
it,  although  he  had  said  that  there  was  intellectual  force 
in  the  girl.  There  was  intellectual  force  in  Hermione, 
but  she  could  not  create.  And  Vere !  He  smiled  as  he 
thought  of  her  rush  into  the  room  with  her  hair  stream- 
ing down,  of  her  shrieks  of  laughter  over  his  absurdity. 
But  she  was  full  of  changes. 

The  door  opened,  and  Vere  came  in  holding  some  man- 
uscript in  her  hand.  She  had  done  up  her  hair  while  she 
had  been  away.  When  Artois  saw  that  he  heaved  him- 
self up  from  the  sofa. 

"I  must  smoke,"  he  said. 

"Oh  yes.     I'll  get  the  Khali  Targas." 

"No.  I  must  have  a  pipe.  And  you  prefer  that,  I 
know." 

"Generally,  but — you  do  look  dreadfully  as  if  you 
meant  business  when  you  are  smoking  a  pipe." 

"I  do  mean  business  now." 

He  took  his  pipe  from  his  pocket,  filled  it  and  lit  it. 

"Now  then,  Vere!"  he  said. 

She  came  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa. 

He  sat  down  beside  her. 


CHAPTER   XII 

MORE  than  an  hour  had  passed.  To  Vere  it  had  seem- 
ed like  five  minutes.  Her  cheeks  were  hotly  flushed. 
Her  eyes  shone.  With  hands  that  were  slightly  trem- 
bling she  gathered  together  her  manuscripts,  and  care- 
fully arranged  them  in  a  neat  packet  and  put  a  piece  of 
ribbon  round  them,  tying  it  in  a  little  bow.  Meanwhile 
Artois,  standing  up,  was  knocking  the  shreds  of  tobacco 
out  of  his  pipe  against  the  chimney-piece  into  his  hand. 
He  carried  them  over  to  the  window,  dro'pped  them  out, 
then  stood  for  a  minute  looking  at  the  sea. 

"The  evening  calm  is  coming,  Vere,"  he  said,  "bring- 
ing with  it  the  wonder  of  this  world." 

"Yes." 

He  heard  a  soft  sigh  behind  him,  and  turned  round. 

"Why  was  that?     Has  dejection  set  in,  then?" 

"No,  no." 

"You  know  the  Latin  saying:  ' Festina  lente'  ?  If  you 
want  to  understand  how  slowly  you  must  hasten,  look  at 
me." 

He  had  been  going  to  add,  "Look  at  these  gray  hairs," 
but  he  did  not.  Just  then  he  felt  suddenly  an  invincible 
reluctance  to  call  Vere's  attention  to  the  signs  of  age 
apparent  in  him. 

"I  spoke  to  you  about  the  admirable  incentive  of  am- 
bition," he  continued,  after  a  moment.  "But  you  must 
understand  that  I  meant  the  ambition  for  perfection, 
not  at  all  the  ambition  for  celebrity.  The  satisfaction  of 
the  former  may  be  a  deep  and  exquisite  joy — the  partial 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

satisfaction,  for  I  suppose  it  can  never  be  anything  more 
than  that.  But  the  satisfaction  of  the  other  will  certainly 
be  Dead-sea  fruit — fruit  of  the  sea  unlike  that  brought 
up  by  Ruffo,  without  lasting  savor,  without  any  real 
value.  One  should  never  live  for  that." 

The  last  words  he  spoke  as  if  to  himself,  almost  like 
a  warning  addressed  to  himself. 

"I  don't  believe  I  ever  should,"  Vere  said,  quickly. 
"I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"The  thought  will  come,  though,  inevitably." 

"How  dreadful  it  must  be  to  know  so  much  about 
human  nature  as  you  do!" 

"And  yet  how  little  I  really  know!" 

There  came  up  a  distant  cry  from  the  sea.  Vere 
started. 

"There  is  Madre!  Of  course,  Monsieur  Emile,  I  don't 
want — but  you  understand!" 

She  hurried  out  of  the  room,  carrying  the  packet  with 
her. 

Artois  felt  that  the  girl  was  strongly  excited.  She 
was  revealing  more  of  herself  to  him,  this  little  Vere 
whom  he  had  known,  and  not  known,  ever  since  she  had 
been  a  baby.  The  gradual  revelation  interested  him  in- 
tensely— so  intensely  that  in  him,  too,  there  was  excite- 
ment now.  So  many  truths  go  to  make  up  the  whqle 
round  truth  of  every  human  soul.  Hermione  saw  some 
of  these  truths  of  Vere,  Gaspare  others,  perhaps;  he  again 
others.  And  even  Ruffo  and  the  Marchesino — he  put 
the  Marchesino  most  definitely  last — even  they  saw  still 
other  truths  of  Vere,  he  supposed. 

To  whom  did  she  reveal  the  most  ?  The  mother  ought 
to  know  most,  and  during  the  years  of  childhood  had 
doubtless  known  most.  But  those  years  were  nearly 
over.  Certainly  Vere  was  approaching,  or  was  on,  the 
threshold  of  the  second  period  of  her  life. 

And  she  and  he  had  a  secret  from  Hermione.  This 

159 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

secret  was  a  very  innocent  one.  Still,  of  course.it  had 
the  two  attributes  that  belong  to  every  secret:  of  drawing 
together  those  who  share  it,  of  setting  apart  from  them 
those  who  know  it  not.  And  there  was  another  secret, 
too,  connected  with  it,  and  known  only  to  Artois:  the 
fact  that  the  child,  Vere,  possessed  the  very  small  but 
quite  definite  beginnings,  the  seed,  as  it  were,  of  some- 
thing that  had  been  denied  to  the  mother,  Hermione. 

"Emile,  you  have  come  back!     I  am  glad!" 

Hermione  came  into  the  room  with  her  eager  manner 
and  rather  slow  gait,  holding  out  both  her  hands,  her 
hot  face  and  prominent  eyes  showing  forth  with  ardor  the 
sincerity  of  her  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"Gaspare  told  me.  I  nearly  gave  him  a  hug.  You 
know  his  sly  look  when  he  has  something  delightful  up 
his  sleeve  for  one!  Bless  you!" 

She  shook  both  his  hands. 

"And  I  had  come  back  in  such  bad  spirits!  But 
now — " 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  put  it  on  a  table. 

"Why  were  you  in  bad  spirits,  my  friend?" 

"I  had  been  with  Madame  Alliani,  seeing  something  of 
the  intense  misery  and  wickedness  of  Naples.  I  have 
seen  a  girl — such  a  tragedy !  What  devils  men  can  be  in 
these  Southern  places!  What  hideous  things  they  will 
do  under  the  pretence  of  being  driven  by  love!  But — 
no,  don't  let  us  spoil  your  arrival.  Where  is  Vere?  I 
thought  she  was  entertaining  you." 

"We  have  been  having  tea  together.  She  has  this 
moment  gone  out  of  the  room." 

"Oh!" 

She  seemed  to  expect  some  further  explanation.  As 
he  gave  none  she  sat  down. 

"Wasn't  she  very  surprised  to  see  you?" 

"I  think  she  was.  She  had  just  been  bathing,  and 
came  running  in  with  her  hair  all  about  her,  looking  like 

160 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

an  Undine  with  a  dash  of  Sicilian  blood  in  her.     Here 
she  is!" 

"Are  you  pleased,  Madre?     You  poor,  hot  Madre!" 

Vere  sat  down  by  her  mother  and  put  one  arm  round 
her.  Subtly  she  was  trying  to  make  up  to  her  mother 
for  the  little  secret  she  was  keeping  from  her  for  a 
time. 

"Are  you  very,  very  pleased?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  am." 

"Think!     You  mischievous  Madre!" 

Hermione  laughed. 

"But  I  feel  almost  jealous  of  you  two  sitting  here  in  the 
cool,  and  having  a  quiet  tea  and  a  lovely  talk  while — 
Never  mind.  Here  is  my  tea.  And  there's  another 
thing.  Oh,  Emile,  I  do  wish  I  had  known  you  would 
arrive  to-day!" 

"Why  specially?" 

"I've  committed  an  unusual  crime.  I've  made — ac- 
tually— an  engagement  for  this  evening." 

Artois  and  Vere  held  up  their  hands  in  exaggerated 
surprise. 

"Are  you  mad,  my  dear  Hermione?"  asked  Artois. 

"I  believe  I  am.  It's  dangerous  to  go  to  Naples.  I 
met  a  young  man." 

"The  Marchesino!"  cried  Vere.  "The  Marchesino! 
I  see  him  in  your  eye,  Madre." 

"C'est  cela!"  said  Artois,  "and  you  mean  to  say — !" 

"That  I  accepted  an  invitation  to  dine  with  him  to- 
night, at  nine,  at  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio.  There!  Why- 
did  I?  I  have  no  idea.  I  was  hot  from  a  horrible  vicolo. 
He  was  cool  from  the  sea.  What  chance  had  I  against 
him?  And  then  he  is  through  and  through  Neapolitan, 
and  gives  no  quarter  to  a  woman,  even  when  she  is  'una 
vecchia.'" 

As  she  finished  Hermione  broke  into  a  laugh,  evidently 
at  some  recollection. 

161 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Doro  made  his  eyes  very  round.  I  can  see  that," 
said  Artois. 

"Like  this!"  cried  Vere. 

And  suddenly  there  appeared  in  her  face  a  reminiscence 
of  the  face  of  the  Marchesino. 

"Vere,  you  must  not!  Some  day  you  will  do  it  by 
accident  when  he  is  here." 

"Is  he  coming  here?" 

"In  a  launch  to  fetch  me— us." 

"Am  I  invited?"  said  Vere.     "What  fun!" 

"I  could  not  get  out  of  it,"  Hermione  said  to  Artois. 
"But  now  I  insist  on  your  staying  here  till  the  Marche- 
sino comes.  Then  he  will  ask  you,  and  we  shall  be  a 
quartet." 

"I  will  stay,"  said  Artois,  with  a  sudden  return  of  his 
authoritative  manner. 

"It  seems  that  I  am  wofully  ignorant  of  the  Bay," 
continued  Hermione.  "I  have  never  dined  at  Frisio's. 
Everybody  goes  there  at  least  once.  Everybody  has 
been  there.  Emperors,  kings,  queens,  writers,  singers, 
politicians,  generals — -they  all  eat  fish  at  Frisio's." 

"It's  true." 

"You  have  done  it?" 

"Yes.  The  Padrone  is  worth  knowing.  He — but 
to-night  you  will  know  him.  Yes,  Frisio's  is  characteris- 
tic. Vere  will  be  amused." 

With  a  light  tone  he  hid  a  faint  chagrin. 

"What  fun!"  repeated  Vere.  "If  I  had  diamonds  I 
should  put  them  on." 

She  too  was  hiding  something,  one  sentiment  with 
another  very  different.  But  her  youth  came  to  her  aid, 
and  very  soon  the  second  excitement  really  took  the 
place  of  the  first,  and  she  was  joyously  alive  to  the 
prospect  of  a  novel  gayety. 

"I  must  not  eat  anything  more,"  said  Hermione.  "I 
believe  the  Marchesino  is  ordering  something  marvellous 

162 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

for  us,  all  the  treasures  of  the  sea.     We  must  be  up  to  the 
mark.     He  really  is  a  good  fellow." 

"Yes,"  said  Artois.  "He  is.  I  have  a  genuine  liking 
for  him." 

He  said  it  with  obvious  sincerity. 

"I  am  going,"  said  Vere.  "I  must  think  about 
clothes.  And  I  must  undo  my  hair  again  and  get  Maria 
to  dry  it  thoroughly,  or  I  shall  look  frightening." 

She  went  out  quickly,  her  eyes  sparkling. 

"Vere  is  delighted,"  said  Hermione. 

"Yes,  indeed  she  is." 

"And  you  are  not.  Would  you  rather  avoid  the 
Marchesino  to-night,  Emile,  and  not  come  with  us? 
Perhaps  I  am  selfish.  I  would  so  very  much  rather  have 
you  with  us." 

"If  Doro  asks  me  I  shall  certainly  come.  It's  true 
that  I  wish  you  were  not  engaged  to-night — I  should 
have  enjoyed  a  quiet  evening  here.  But  we  shall  have 
many  quiet,  happy  evenings  together  this  summer,  I 
hope." 

"I  wonder  if  we  shall?"  said  Hermione,  slowly. 

"You — why?" 

"I  don't  know.  Oh,  I  am  absurd,  probably.  One  has 
such  strange  ideas,  houses  based  on  sand,  or  on  air,  or 
perhaps  on  nothing  at  all." 

She  got  up,  went  to  her  writing-table,  opened  a  drawer, 
and  took  out  of  it  a  letter. 

"Emile,"  she  said,  coming  back  to  him  with  it  in  her 
hand,  "would  you  like  to  explain  this  to  me?" 

"What  is  it?" 

' '  The  letter  I  found  from  you  when  I  came  back  from 
Capri." 

"But  does  it  need  explanation?" 

"  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  did.     Read  it  and  see." 

He  took  it  from  her,  opened  it  and  read  it. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

163 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"  Isn't  the  real  meaning  between  the  lines  ?" 

"If  it  is,  cannot  you  decipher  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  so.  Somehow  it  de- 
pressed me.  Perhaps  it  was  my  mood  just  then.  Was 
it?" 

"Perhaps  it  was  merely  mine." 

"But  why — 'I  feel  specially  this  summer  I  should  like 
to  be  near  you'?  What  does  that  mean  exactly?" 

"I  did  feel  that." 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you  now.  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  could  even  have  told  you  at  the  time  I  wrote  that 
letter." 

She  took  it  from  him  and  put  it  away  again  in  the 
drawer. 

"Perhaps  we  shall  both  know  later  on,"  she  said, 
quietly.  "I  believe  we  shall." 

He  did  not  say  anything. 

"I  saw  that  boy,  Ruffo,  this  afternoon,"  she  said,  after 
a  moment  of  silence. 

"Did  you?"  said  Artois,  with  a  change  of  tone,  a 
greater  animation.  "I  forgot  to  ask  Vere  about  him. 
I  suppose  he  has  been  to  the  island  again  while  I  have 
been  away?" 

"Not  once.  Poor  boy,  I  find  he  has  been  ill.  He  has 
had  fever.  He  was  out  to-day  for  the  first  time  after  it. 
We  met  him  close  to  Mergellina.  He  was  in  a  boat,  but 
he  looked  very  thin  and  pulled  down.  He  seemed  so  de- 
lighted to  see  me.  I  was  quite  touched." 

"Hasn't  Vere  been  wondering  very  much  why  he  did 
not  come  again?" 

"She  has  never  once  mentioned  him.  Vere  is  a 
strange  child  sometimes." 

"But  you — haven't  you  spoken  of  him  to  her?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Vere's  silence  made  you  silent  ?" 
164 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"I  suppose  so.  I  must  tell  her.  She  likes  the  boy 
very  much." 

"What  is  it  that  attracts  her  to  this  boy,  do  you 
think?" 

The  question  was  ordinary  enough,  but  there  was  a 
peculiar  intonation  in  Artois'  voice  as  he  asked  it,  an 
intonation  that  awakened  surprise  in  Hermione. 

"I  don't  know.     He  is  an  attractive  boy." 

"You  think  so  too?" 

"Why,  yes.     What  do  you  mean,  Emile?" 

"I  was  only  wondering.  The  sea  breeds  a  great  many 
boys  like  Ruflo,  you  know.  But  they  don't  all  get 
Khali  Targa  cigarettes  given  to  them,  for  all  that." 

"That's  true.  I  have  never  seen  Vere  pay  any  par- 
ticular attention  to  the  fishermen  who  come  to  the  island. 
In  a  way  she  loves  them  all  because  they  belong  to  the 
sea,  she  loves  them  as  a  decor.  But  Ruflo  is  different. 
I  felt  it  myself." 

"Did  you?" 

He  looked  at  her,  then  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
pulled  his  beard  slowly. 

"Yes.  In  my  case,  perhaps,  the  interest  was  roused 
partly  by  what  Vere  told  me.  The  boy  is  a  Sicilian,  you 
see,  and  just  Vere's  age. 

"  Vere's  interest  perhaps  comes  from  the  same  reason." 

"Very  likely  it  does." 

Hermione  spoke  the  last  words  without  conviction. 
Perhaps  they  both  felt  that  they  were  not  talking  very 
frankly  —  were  not  expressing  their  thoughts  to  each 
other  with  their  accustomed  sincerity.  At  any  rate, 
Artois  suddenly  introduced  another  topic  of  conver- 
sation, the  reason  of  his  hurried  visit  to  Paris,  and  for 
the  next  hour  they  discussed  literary  affairs  with  a  grad- 
ually increasing  vivacity  and  open-heartedness.  The 
little  difficulty  between  them — of  which  both  had  been 
sensitive  and  fully  conscious — passed  away,  and  when 

165 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

at  length  Hermione  got  up  to  go  to  her  bedroom  and 
change  her  dress  for  the  evening,  there  was  no  cloud 
about  them. 

When  Hermione  hu,d  gone  Artois  took  up  a  book,  but 
he  sat  till  the  evening  was  falling  and  Giulia  came 
smiling  to  light  the  lamp,  without  reading  a  word  of  it. 
Her  entry  roused  him  from  his  reverie,  and  he  took  out 
his  watch.  It  was  already  past  eight.  The  Marchesino 
would  soon  be  coming.  And  then — the  dinner  at  Frisio's ! 

He  got  up  and  moved  about  the  room,  picking  up  a 
book  here  and  there,  glancing  at  some  pages,  then  putting 
it  down.  He  felt  restless  and  uneasy. 

"I  am  tired  from  the  journey,"  he  thought.  "Or — 
I  wonder  what  the  weather  is  this  evening.  The  heat 
seems  to  have  become  suffocating  since  Hermione  went 
away." 

He  went  to  one  of  the  windows  and  looked  out.  Twi- 
light was  stealing  over  the  sea,  which  was  so  calm  that 
it  resembled  a  huge  sheet  of  steel.  The  sky  over  the 
island  was  clear.  He  turned  and  went  to  the  opposite 
window.  Above  Ischia  there  was  a  great  blackness  like 
a  pall.  He  stood  looking  at  it  for  some  minutes.  His 
erring  thoughts,  which  wandered  like  things  fatigued 
that  cannot  rest,  went  to  a  mountain  village  in  Sicily, 
through  which  he  had  once  ridden  at  night  during  a 
terrific  thunder-storm.  In  a  sudden,  fierce  glare  of 
lightning  he  had  seen  upon  the  great  door  of  a  gaunt 
Palazzo,  which  looked  abandoned,  a  strip  of  black  cloth. 
Above  it  were  the  words,  "Lutto  in  famiglia." 

That  was  years  ago.  Yet  now  he  saw  again  the  palace 
door,  the  strip  of  cloth  soaked  by  the  pouring  rain,  the 
dreary,  almost  sinister  words  which  he  had  read  by 
lightning: 

"Lutto 'in  famiglia." 

He  repeated  them  as  he  gazed  at  the  blackness  above 
Ischia. 

166 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Monsieur  Emile!" 

"Vere!" 

The  girl  came  towards  him,  a  white  contrast  to  what  he 
had  been  watching. 

"I'm  all  ready.  It  seems  so  strange  to  be  going  out 
to  a  sort  of  party.  I've  had  such  a  bother  with  my 
hair." 

"You  have  conquered,"  he  said.  "Undine  has  dis- 
appeared." 

"What?" 

"Come  quite  close  to  the  lamp." 

She  came  obediently. 

"Vere  transformed!"  he  said.  "I  have  seen  three 
Veres  to-day  already.  How  many  more  will  greet  me 
to-night?" 

She  laughed  gently,  standing  quite  still.  Her  dress 
and  her  gloves  were  white,  but  she  had  on  a  small  black 
hat,  very  French,  and  at  the  back  of  her  hair  there  was 
a  broad  black  ribbon  tied  in  a  big  bow.  This  ribbon 
marked  her  exact  age  clearly,  he  thought. 

"This  is  a  new  frock,  and  my  very  smartest,"  she  said; 
"and  you  dared  to  abuse  Paris!" 

"Being  a  man.  I  must  retract  now.  You  are  right, 
we  cannot  do  without  it.  But  —  have  you  an  um- 
brella?" 

"An  umbrella?" 

She  moved  and  laughed  again,  much  more  gayly. 

"I  am  serious.     Come  here  and  look  at  Ischia." 

She  went  with  him  quickly  to  the  window. 

"That  blackness  does  look  wicked.  But  it's  a  long 
way  off." 

"I  think  it  is  coming  this  way." 

"Oh,  but" — and  she  went  to  the  opposite  window — 
"the  sky  is  perfectly  clear  towards  Naples.  And  look 
how  still  the  sea  is." 

"Too  still.     It  is  like  steel." 

167 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Hush!     Listen!" 

She  held  up  her  hand.  They  both  heard  a  far-off 
sound  of  busy  panting  on  the  sea. 

"That  must  be  the  launch!"  she  said. 

Her  eyes  were  gay  and  expectant.  It  was  evident  that 
she  was  in  high  spirits,  that  she  was  looking  forward  to 
this  unusual  gayety. 

"Yes." 

"Doesn't  it  sound  in  a  hurry,  as  if  the  Marchesino  was 
terribly  afraid  of  being  late?" 

"Get  your  umbrella,  Vere,  and  a  waterproof.  You 
will  want  them  both." 

At  that  moment  Hermione  came  in. 

"Madre,  the  launch  is  coming  in  a  frightful  hurry, 
and  Monsieur  Emile  says  we  must  take  umbrellas." 

"Surely  it  isn't  going  to  rain?" 

"There  is  a  thunder-storm  coming  up  from  Ischia,  I 
believe,"  said  Artois. 

"Then  we  will  take  our  cloaks  in  case.  It  is  fearfully 
hot.  I  thought  so  when  I  was  dressing.  No  doubt  the 
launch  will  have  a  cabin." 

A  siren  hooted. 

"That  is  the  Marchesino  saluting  us!"  cried  Vere. 
"Come  along,  Madre!  Maria!  Maria!" 

She  ran  out,  calling  for  the  cloaks. 

"Do  you  like  Vere's  frock,  Emile?"  said  Hermione,  as 
they  followed. 

"Yes.  She  looks  delicious — but  quite  like  a  little 
woman  of  the  world." 

"Ah,  you  like  her  best  as  the  Island  child.  So  do  I. 
Oh,  Emile!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  can't  help  it.     I  hate  Vere's  growing  up." 

"Few  things  can  remain  unchanged  for  long.  This 
sea  will  be  unrecognizable  before  we  return." 

Gaspare  met  them  on  the  landing  with  solemn  eyes. 

168 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"There  is  going  to  be  a  great  storm,  Signora,"  he  said. 
"It  is  coming  from  Ischia." 

"So  Don  Emilio  thinks.  But  we  will  take  wraps,  and 
we  are  going  in  a  launch.  It  will  be  all  right,  Gaspare." 

"Shall  I  come  with  you,  Signora?" 

"Well,  Gaspare,  you  see  it  is  the  Marchese's  launch — " 

"If  you  would  like  me  to  come,  I  will  ask  the  Signer 
Marchese." 

"We'll  see  how  much  room  there  is." 

"Si,  Signora." 

He  went  down  to  receive  the  launch. 

"Emile,"  Hermione  said,  as  he  disappeared,  "can  you 
understand  what  a  comfort  to  me  Gaspare  is?  Ah,  if 
people  knew  how  women  love  those  who  are  ready  to 
protect  them!  It's  quite  absurd,  but  just  because  Gas- 
pare said  that,  I'd  fifty  times  rather  have  him  with  us 
than  go  without  him." 

"I  understand.     I  love  your  watch-dog,  too." 

She  touched  his  arm. 

"No  one  could  ever  understand  the  merits  of  a  watch- 
dog better  than  you.  That's  right,  Maria;  we  shall  be 
safer  with  these." 

The  Marchesino  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  bare- 
headed, to  receive  them.  He  was  in  evening  dress,  what 
he  called  "smoking,"  with  a  flower  in  his  button-hole,  and 
a  straw  hat,  and  held  a  pair  of  white  kid  gloves  in  his 
hand.  He  looked  in  rapturous  spirits,  but  ceremonial. 
When  he  caught  sight  of  Artois  on  the  steps  behind 
Hermione  and  Vere,  however,  he  could  not  repress  an 
exclamation  of  "Emilio!" 

He  took  Hermione's  and  Vere's  hands,  bowed  over 
them  and  kissed  them.  Then  he  turned  to  his  friend. 

"Caro  Emilio!  You  are  back!  You  must  come  with 
us!  You  must  dine  at  Frisio's." 

"May  I?"  said  Artois. 

"You  must.  This  is  delightful.  See,  Madame," 

169 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

he  added  to  Hermione,  suddenly  breaking  into  awful 
French,  "we  have  the  English  flag!  Your  Jack!  Voila, 
the  great,  the  only  Jack!  I  salute  him!  Let  me  help 
you!" 

As  Hermione  stepped  into  the  launch  she  said: 

"I  see  there  is  plenty  of  room.  I  wonder  if  you  would 
mind  my  taking  my  servant,  Gaspare,  to  look  after  the 
cloaks  and  umbrellas.  It  seems  absurd,  but  he  says  a 
storm  is  coming,  and — " 

"A  storm!"  cried  the  Marchesino.  "Of  course  your 
Gaspare  must  come.  Which  is  he?" 

"There." 

The  Marchesino  spoke  to  Gaspare  in  Italian,  telling 
him  to  join  the  two  sailors  in  the  stern  of  the  launch. 
A  minute  afterwards  he  went  to  him  and  gave  him 
some  cigarettes.  Then  he  brought  from  the  cabin  two 
bouquets  of  flowers,  and  offered  them  to  Hermione  and 
Vere,  who,  with  Artois,  were  settling  themselves  in  the 
bows.  The  siren  sounded.  They  were  off,  cutting  swift- 
ly through  the  oily  sea. 

"A  storm,  Signora!  Cloaks  and  umbrellas!"  said  the 
Marchesino,  shooting  a  glance  of  trumph  at  "Caro 
Emilio,"  whose  presence  to  witness  his  success  completed 
his  enjoyment  of  it.  "But  it  is  a  perfect  night.  Look 
at  the  sea.  Signorina,  let  me  put  the  cushion  a  little 
higher  behind  you.  It  is  not  right.  You  are  not  per- 
fectly comfortable.  And  everything  must  be  perfect  for 
you  to-night — everything."  He  arranged  the  cushion 
tenderly.  "The  weather,  too!  Why,  where  is  the 
storm?" 

"Over  Ischia,"  said  Artois. 

"It  will  stay  there.  Ischia!  It  is  a  volcano.  Any- 
thing terrible  may  happen  there." 

"And  Vesuvius?"  said  Hermione,  laughing. 

The  Marchesino  threw  up  his  chin. 

"We  are  not  going  to  Vesuvius  I  know  Naples, 

170 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Signora,  and  I  promise  you  fine  weather.  We  shall  take 
our  coffee  after  dinner  outside  upon  the  terrace  at  the 
one  and  only  Frisio's." 

He  chattered  on  gayly.  His  eyes  were  always  on  Vere, 
but  he  talked  chiefly  to  Hermione,  with  the  obvious  in- 
tention of  fascinating  the  mother  in  order  that  she  might 
be  favorably  disposed  towards  him,  and  later  on  smile 
indulgently  upon  his  flirtation  with  the  daughter.  His 
proceedings  were  carried  on  with  a  frankness  that  should 
have  been  disarming,  and  that  evidently  did  disarm 
Hermione  and  Vere,  who  seemed  to  regard  the  Marchesino 
as  a  very  lively  boy.  But  Artois  was  almost  immediately 
conscious  of  a  secret  irritation  that  threatened  to  spoil 
his  evening. 

The  Marchesino  was  triumphant.  Emilio  had  wished 
to  prevent  him  from  knowing  these  ladies.  Why  ?  Evi- 
dently because  Emilio  considered  him  dangerous.  Now 
he  knew  the  ladies.  He  was  actually  their  host.  And 
he  meant  to  prove  to  Emilio  how  dangerous  he  could  be. 
His  eyes  shot  a  lively  defiance  at  his  friend,  then  melted 
as  they  turned  to  Hermione,  melted  still  more  as  they 
gazed  with  unwinking  sentimentality  into  the  eyes  of 
Vere.  He  had  no  inward  shyness  to  contend  against, 
and  was  perfectly  at  his  ease;  and  Artois  perceived  that 
his  gayety  and  sheer  animal  spirits  were  communicating 
themselves  to  his  companions.  Vere  said  little,  but  she 
frequently  laughed,  and  her  face  lit  up  with  eager  anima- 
tion. And  she,  too,  was  quite  at  her  ease.  The  direct, 
and  desirous,  glances  of  the  Marchesino  did  not  upset  her 
innocent  self-possession  at  all,  although  they  began  to 
upset  the  self-possession  of  Artois.  As  he  sat,  gener- 
ally in  silence,  listening  to  the  frivolous  and  cheerful 
chatter  that  never  stopped,  while  the  launch  cut  its 
way  through  the  solemn,  steel-like  sea  towards  the  lights 
of  Posilipo,  he  felt  that  he  was  apart  because  he  was 
clever,  as  if  his  cleverness  caused  loneliness. 
i«  171 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

They  travelled  fast.  Soon  the  prow  of  the  launch  was 
directed  to  a  darkness  that  lay  below,  and  to  the  right 
of  a  line  of  brilliant  lights  that  shone  close  to  the  sea ;  and 
a  boy  dressed  in  white,  holding  a  swinging  lantern,  and 
standing,  like  a  statue,  in  a  small  niche  of  rock  almost 
flush  with  the  water,  hailed  them,  caught  the  gunwale  of 
the  launch  with  one  hand,  and  brought  it  close  in  to  the 
wall  that  towered  above  them. 

"Do  we  get  out  here?  But  where  do  we  go?"  said 
Hermione. 

"There  is  a  staircase.     Let  me — " 

The  Marchesino  was  out  in  a  moment  and  helped  them 
all  to  land.  He  called  to  the  sailors  that  he  would  send 
down  food  and  wine  to  them  and  Gaspare.  Then, 
piloted  by  the  boy  with  the  lantern,  they  walked  up 
carefully  through  dark  passages  and  over  crumbling 
stairs,  turned  to  the  left,  and  came  out  upon  a  small 
terrace  above  the  sea  and  facing  the  curving  lamps  of 
Naples.  Just  beyond  was  a  long  restaurant,  lined  with 
great  windows  on  one  side  and  with  mirrors  on  the  other, 
and  blazing  with  light. 

"Ecco!"  cried  the  Marchesino.  "Ecco  lo  Scoglio  di 
Frisio!  And  here  is  the  Padrone!"  he  added,  as  a  small, 
bright -eyed  man,  with  a  military  figure  and  fierce 
mustaches,  came  briskly  forward  to  receive  them. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  dinner,  which  was  served  at  a  table  strewn  with 
red  carnations  close  to  an  open  window,  was  a  gay  one, 
despite  Artois.  It  could  hardly  have  been  otherwise 
with  a  host  so  complacent,  so  attentive,  so  self-possessed, 
so  hilarious  as  the  Marchesino.  And  the  Padrone  of  the 
restaurant  warmly  seconded  the  efforts  of  the  giver  of  the 
feast.  He  hovered  perpetually,  but  always  discreetly, 
near,  watchfully  directing  the  middle-aged  waiters  in 
their  duties,  smiling  to  show  his  teeth,  stained  with 
tobacco  juice,  or  drawing  delicately  close  to  relate  anec- 
dotes connected  with  the  menu. 

The  soup,  a  "zuppa  di  pesce  alia  marinara"  remark- 
able for  its  beautiful  red  color,  had  been  originally  in- 
vented by  the  chef  of  Frisio's  for  the  ex-Queen  Natalie 
of  Servia,  who  had  deigned  to  come,  heavily  veiled,  to 
lunch  at  the  Scoglio,  and  had  finally  thrown  off  her  veil 
and  her  incognito,  and  written  her  name  in  the  visitors' 
book  for  all  to  see.  The  Macaroni  a  I'lmperatrice  had 
been  the  favorite  plat  of  the  dead  Empress  Elizabeth  of 
Austria,  who  used  to  visit  Frisio's  day  after  day,  and 
who  always  demanded  two  things — an  eruption  of  Vesu- 
vius and  "  Funiculi,  funicula !"  William  Ewart  Gladstone 
had  deigned  to  praise  the  "oeufs  a  la  Gladstone,"  called 
henceforth  by  his  name,  when  he  walked  over  from  the 
Villa  Rendel  to  breakfast ;  and  the  delicious  punch  served 
before  the  dolce,  and  immediately  after  the  "  Polio  pana- 
to  alia  Frisio,"  had  been  lauded  by  the  late  Czar  of  all 
the  Russias,  who  was  drinking  a  glass  of  it — according 

173 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

to  the  solemn  asservation  of  the  Padrone — when  the 
telegram  announcing  the  assassination  of  his  father  was 
put  into  his  hand. 

Names  of  very  varied  popular  and  great  ones  of  the 
earth  floated  about  the  table.  Here,  it  appeared,  Mario 
Costa  and  Paolo  Tosti  had  composed  their  most  cele- 
brated songs  between  one  course  and  another.  Here 
Zola  and  Tolstoy  had  written.  Here  Sarah  Bernhardt 
had  ordered  a  dozen  bottles  of  famous  old  wine  to  be  sent 
to  the  Avenue  Pereire  from  the  cellars  of  Frisio,  and  had 
fallen  in  love  with  a  cat  from  Greece.  Here  Matilde 
Serao  had  penned  a  lasting  testimony  to  the  marital 
fidelity  of  her  husband. 

Everything — everything  had  happened  here,  just  here, 
at  Frisio's. 

Seeing  the  amused  interest  of  his  guests,  the  Mar- 
chesino  encouraged  the  Padrone  to  talk,  called  for  his 
most  noted  wines,  and  demanded  at  dessert  a  jug  of 
Asti  Spumante,  wich  snow  in  it,  and  strawberries  floating 
on  the  top. 

"You  approve  of  Frisio's,  Signorina?"  he  said,  bend- 
ing towards  Vere.  "You  do  not  find  your  evening 
dull?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  A  certain  excitement  was 
noticeable  in  her  gayety — had  been  noticed  by  her  mother 
all  through  the  evening.  It  was  really  due  to  the  after- 
noon's incident  with  Artois,  succeeded  by  this  un- 
expected festival,  in  which  the  lively  homage  of  the 
Marchesino  was  mingled  with  the  long  procession  of  cel- 
ebrated names  introduced  by  the  Padrone.  Vere  was 
secretly  strung  up,  had  been  strung  up  even  before  she 
stepped  into  the  launch.  She  felt  very  happy,  but  in  her 
happiness  there  was  something  feverish,  which  was  not 
customary  to  any  mood  of  hers.  She  never  drank  wine, 
and  had  taken  none  to-night,  yet  as  the  evening  wore 
on  she  was  conscious  of  an  effervescence,  as  if  her  brain 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

were  full  of  winking  bubbles  such  as  rise  to  the  surface  of 
champagne. 

Her  imagination  was  almost  furiously  alive ;  and  as  the 
Padrone  talked,  waving  his  hands  and  striking  postures 
like  those  of  a  military  dictator,  she  saw  the  dead  Em- 
press, with  her  fan  before  her  face,  nodding  her  head  to 
the  jig  of  "Funicull,  funicula,"  while  she  watched  the  red 
cloud  from  Vesuvius  rising  into  the  starry  sky;  she  saw 
Sarah  Bernhardt  taking  the  Greek  cat  upon  her  knee; 
the  newly  made  Czar  reading  the  telegram  with  his  glass 
of  punch  beside  him;  Tosti  tracing  lines  of  music;  Glad- 
stone watching  the  sea;  and  finally  the  gaunt  figure  and 
the  long  beard  of  Tolstoy  bending  over  the  book  in  which  he 
wrote  clearly  so  many  years  ago, "  VediNapoli  e  poi  mori." 

"Monsieur  Emile,  you  must  write  in  the  wonderful 
book  of  Frisio's,"  she  exclaimed. 

"We  will  all  write,  Signorina!"  cried  the  Marchesino. 
"Bring  the  book,  Signor  Masella!" 

The  Padrone  hastened  away  to  fetch  it,  but  Vere  shook 
her  head. 

"No,  no,  we  must  not  write!  We  are  nobodies. 
Monsieur  Emile  is  a  great  man.  Only  he  is  worthy  of 
such  a  book.  Isn't  it  so,  Madre?" 

Artois  felt  the  color  rising  to  his  face  at  this  unexpect- 
ed remark  of  the  girl.  He  had  been  distrait  during  the 
dinner,  certainly  neither  brilliant  nor  amusing,  despite 
his  efforts  to  seem  talkative  and  cheerful.  A  depression 
had  weighed  upon  him,  as  it  had  weighed  upon  him  in  the 
launch  during  the  voyage  from  the  island.  He  had  felt 
as  if  he  were  apart,  even  almost  as  if  he  were  de  trop.  Had 
Vere  noticed  it  ?  Was  that  the  reason  of  this  sudden  and 
charming  demonstration  in  his  favor. 

He  looked  across  at  her,  longing  to  know.  But  she 
was  arguing  gayly  with  the  Marchesino,  who  continued 
to  insist  that  they  must  all  write  their  names  as  a 
souvenir  of  the  occasion. 

175 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"We  are  nobodies,"  she  repeated. 

"You  dare  to  say  that  you  are  a  nobody!"  exclaimed 
the  young  man,  looking  at  her  with  ardent  eyes.  "Ah, 
Signorina,  you  do  wrong  to  drink  no  wine.  In  wine  there 
is  truth,  they  say.  But  you — you  drink  water,  and  then 
you  say  these  dreadful  things  that  are  not — are  not  true. 
Emilio" — he  suddenly  appealed  to  Artois — "would  not 
the  Signorina  honor  any  book  by  writing  her  name  in  it  ? 
I  ask  you  if — " 

"Marchese,  don't  be  ridiculous!"  said  Vere,  with  sud- 
den petulance.  ' '  Don't  ask  Monsieur  Emile  absurd  ques- 
tions!" 

"But  he  thinks  as  I  do.  Emilio,  is  it  not  so?  Is  it 
not  an  honor  for  any  book  to  have  the  Signorina's  name  ?" 

He  spoke  emphatically  and  looked  really  in  earnest. 
Artois  felt  as  if  he  were  listening  to  a  silly  boy  who  un- 
derstood nothing. 

"Let  us  all  write  our  names,"  he  said.  "Here  comes 
the  book." 

The  Padrone  bore  it  proudly  down  between  the  mirrors 
and  the  windows. 

But  Vere  suddenly  got  up. 

"I  won't  write  my  name,"  she  said,  sticking  out  her 
chin  with  the  little  determined  air  that  was  sometimes 
characteristic  of  her.  ' '  I  am  going  to  see  what  Gaspare 
and  the  sailors  are  doing." 

And  she  walked  quickly  away  towards  the  terrace. 

The  Marchesino  sprang  up  in  despair. 

"Shall  we  all  go,  Madame ?"  he  said.  "I  have  ordered 
coffee.  It  will  be  brought  in  a  moment  to  the  terrace." 

Hermione  glanced  at  Artois. 

"I  will  stay  here  for  a  little.  I  want  to  look  at  the 
book,"  she  said.  "We  will  come  in  a  moment.  I  don't 
take  coffee." 

"Then — we  will  be  upon  the  terrace.  A  rivederci  per 
un  momento — pour  un  moment,  Madame." 

176 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

He  bowed  over  Hermione 's  hand,  and  hurried  away 
after  Vere. 

The  Padrone  put  his  book  very  carefully  down  be- 
tween Hermione  and  Artois,  and  left  them  with  a  mur- 
mured apology  that  he  had  to  look  after  another  party 
of  guests  which  had  just  come  into  the  restaurant. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  those  young 
things  for  a  minute,"  said  Hermione,  in  explanation  of 
what  she  had  done. 

Artois  did  not  reply,  but  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the 
book  mechanically. 

"Oh,  here  is  Tolstoy's  signature,"  he  said,  stopping. 

Hermione  drew  her  chair  nearer. 

"What  a  clear  handwriting!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?     'Vedi  Napoli  e  poi  mori."1 

"Where  are  you  going  to  write?" 

Pie  was  looking  towards  the  outer  room  of  the  res- 
taurant which  led  onto  the  terrace. 

He  turned  the  leaves. 

"I? — oh — here  is  a  space." 

He  took  up  a  pen  the  Padrone  had  brought,  dipped  it 
into  the  ink. 

"What's  the  good?"  he  said,  making  a  movement  as 
if  to  push  the  book  away. 

"No;   do  write." 

"Why  should  I?" 

"I  agree  with  Vere.  Your  name  will  add  something 
worth  having  to  the  book." 

"Oh,  well—" 

A  rather  bitter  expression  had  come  into  his  face. 

"Dead-sea  fruit!"  he  muttered. 

But  he  bent,  wrote  something  quickly,  signed  his  name, 
blotted  and  shut  the  book.  Hermione  had  not  been  able 
to  see  the  sentence  he  had  written.  She  did  not  ask 
*vhat  it  was. 

There  was  a  noise  of  rather  shuffling  footsteps  on  the 

177 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

paved  floor  of  the  room.  Three  musicians  had  come  in. 
They  were  shabbily  dressed.  One  was  very  short,  stout, 
and  quite  blind,  with  a  gaping  mouth  that  had  an  odd 
resemblance  to  an  elephant's  mouth  when  it  lifts  its 
trunk  and  shows  its  rolling  tongue.  He  smiled  perpetu- 
ally. The  other  two  were  thin  and  dreary,  middle-aged, 
and  hopeless-looking.  They  stood  not  far  from  the  table 
and  began  to  play  on  guitars,  putting  wrong  harmonies 
to  a  well-known  Neapolitan  tune,  whose  name  Artois 
could  not  recall. 

"What  a  pity  it  is  they  never  put  the  right  bass!"  said 
Hermione. 

"Yes.  One  would  suppose  they  would  hit  it  some- 
times by  mistake.  But  they  seldom  do." 

Except  for  the  thin  and  uncertain  music  the  restaurant 
was  almost  silent.  The  people  who  had  just  come  in 
were  sitting  down  far  away  at  the  end  of  the  long  room. 
Hermione  and  Artois  were  the  only  other  visitors,  now 
that  Vere  and  the  Marchesino  were  outside  on  the  terrace. 

"Famous  though  it  is,  Frisio's  does  not  draw  the 
crowd,"  said  Hermione. 

To-night  she  found  it  oddly  difficult  to  talk  to  her 
friend,  although  she  had  refused  the  Marchesino 's  invita- 
tion on  purpose  to  do  so. 

"Perhaps  people  were  afraid  of  the  storm." 

"Well,  but  it  doesn't  come." 

"It  is  close,"  he  said.     " Don't  you  feel  it  ?     I  do." 

His  voice  was  heavy  with  melancholy,  and  made  her 
feel  sad,  even  apprehensive. 

"Where  are  the  stars?"  he  added. 

She  followed  his  example  and  leaned  out  of  the  great 
window.  Not  a  star  was  visible  in  all  the  sky. 

"You  are  right.  It  is  coming.  I  feel  it  now.  The 
sea  is  like  lead,  and  the  sky,  too.  There  is  no  sense  of 
freedom  to-night ,  no  out-of-doors  feeling.  And  the  water 
is  horribly  calm." 

178 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

As  they  both  leaned  out  they  heard,  away  to  the  left 
at  some  distance,  the  voices  of  Vere  and  the  Marche- 
sino. 

"I  stayed  because  I  thought — I  fancied  all  the  chatter 
was  getting  a  little  on  your  nerves,  Emile,"  Hermione 
said  now.  "They  are  so  absurdly  young,  both  of  them. 
Wasn't  it  so?" 

"Am  I  so  old  that  youth  should  get  upon  iny  nerves ?" 
he  returned,  with  a  creeping  irritation,  which,  however, 
he  tried  to  keep  out  of  his  voice. 

"No.  But  of  course  we  can  hardly  enjoy  nonsense 
that  might  amuse  them  immensely.  Vere  is  such  a  baby, 
and  your  friend  is  a  regular  boy,  in  spite  of  his  self- 
assurance." 

"Women  often  fancy  men  to  be  young  in  ways  in 
which  they  are  not  young,"  said  Artois.  "Panacci  is 
very  much  of  a  man,  I  can  assure  you." 

"Panacci!     I  never  heard  you  call  him  that  before." 

Her  eager  brown  eyes  went  to  his  face  curiously  for  a 
moment.  Artois  saw  that,  and  said,  rather  hastily: 

"It's  true  that  nearly  every  one  calls  him  Doro." 

Once  more  they  heard  the  chattering  voices,  and  then 
a  sound  of  laughter  in  the  darkness.  It  made  Hermione 
smile,  but  Artois  moved  uneasily.  Just  then  there  came 
to  them  from  the  sea,  like  a  blow,  a  sudden  puff  of  wind. 
It  hit  their  faces. 

"Do  you  want  to  avoid  the  storm ?"  Artois  said. 

"Yes.     Do  you  think — 

"I  am  sure  you  can  only  avoid  it  by  going  at  once. 
Look!" 

He  pointed  towards  the  sea.  The  blackness  before 
them  was  cut  at  some  distance  off  by  a  long,  level  line 
of  white. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Hermione,  peering  out, 

"Foam." 

"Foam!     But  surely  it  can't  be!" 

179 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

The  wind  struck  them  again.  It  was  like  a  hot,  almost 
like  a  sweating  hand,  coarse  and  violent,  and  repugnant. 

Hermione  drew  in. 

"There  is  something  disgusting  in  nature  to-night," 
she  said — "something  that  seems  almost  unnatural." 

The  blind  man  began  to  sing  behind  them.  His 
voice  was  soft  and  throaty.  The  phrasing  was  sickly. 
Some  notes  trembled.  As  he  sang  he  threw  back  his 
head,  stared  with  his  sightless  eyes  at  the  ceiling,  and 
showed  his  tongue.  The  whole  of  his  fat  body  swayed. 
His  face  became  scarlet.  The  two  hopeless,  middle-aged 
men  on  either  side  of  him  stared  into  vacancy  as,  with 
dirty  hands  on  which  the  veins  stood  out,  they  played 
wrong  basses  to  the  melody  on  their  guitars. 

Suddenly  Hermione  was  seized  with  a  sensation  of 
fear. 

"Let  us  go.     We  had  better  go.     Ah!" 

She  cried  out.  The  wind,  returning,  had  caught  the 
white  table-cloth.  It  flew  up  towards  her,  then  sank 
down. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  she  said.  "I  thought — I  didn't 
know — " 

She  felt  that  really  it  was  something  in  Artois  which 
had  upset  her  nerves,  but  she  did  not  say  so.  In  that 
moment,  when  she  was  startled,  she  had  instinctively 
put  out  her  hand  towards  him.  But,  as  instinctively,  she 
drew  it  back  without  touching  him. 

"Oh,  here  is  Gaspare!"  she  said. 

An  immense,  a  really  ridiculous  sense  of  relief  came  to 
her  as  she  saw  Gaspare's  sturdy  legs  marching  deci- 
sively towards  them,  his  great  eyes  examining  the  row 
of  mirrors,  the  tables,  the  musicians,  then  settling  com- 
fortably upon  his  Padrona.  Over  his  arms  he  carried 
the  cloaks,  and  his  hands  grasped  the  two  umbrellas. 
At  that  moment,  if  she  had  translated  her  impulse  into 
an  action,  Hermione  would  have  given  Gaspare  a  good 

180 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

hug — just  for  being  himself;  for  being  always  the  same: 
honest,  watchful,  perfectly  fearless,  perfectly  natural,  and 
perfectly  determined  to  take  care  of  his  Padrona  and  his 
Padroncina. 

Afterwards  she  remembered  that  she  had  found  in  his 
presence  relief  from  something  that  had  distressed  her  in 
her  friend. 

"Signora,  the  storm  is  coming.  Look  at  the  sea!" 
said  Gaspare.  He  pointed  to  the  white  line  which  was 
advancing  in  the  blackness. 

"I  told  the  Signorina,  and  that  Signore — " 

A  fierce  flash  of  lightning  zigzagged  across  the  window- 
space,  and  suddenly  the  sound  of  the  wind  was  loud 
upon  the  sea,  and  mingled  with  the  growing  murmur  of 
waves. 

"Ecco!"  said  Gaspare.  "Signora,  you  ought  to  start 
at  once.  But  the  Signer  Marchese — " 

The  thunder  followed.  Hermione  had  been  waiting 
for  it,  and  felt  almost  relieved  when  it  came  crashing 
above  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio. 

"The  Signer  Marchese,  Gaspare?"  she  asked,  putting 
on  the  cloak  he  was  holding  for  her. 

",He  only  laughs,  Signora,"  said  Gaspare,  rather  con- 
temptuously. "The  Signer  Marchese  thinks  only  of  his 
pleasure." 

"Well,  he  must  think  of  yours  now,"  said  Artois,  de- 
cisively, to  Hermione.  "You  will  have  a  rough  voyage 
to  the  island,  even  as  it  is." 

They  were  walking  towards  the  entrance.  Hermione 
had  noticed  the  pronoun,  and  said,  quietly: 

"You  will  take  a  carriage  to  the  hotel,  or  a  tram?" 

"The  tram,  I  think.     It  passes  the  door  here." 

He  glanced  at  her  and  added: 

"I  noticed  that  the  cabin  of  the  launch  is  very  small, 
and  as  Gaspare  is  with  you — " 

"Oh,  of  course!"  she  said,  quickly.  "  It  would  be  ridic- 

181 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ulous  for  you  to  come  all  the  way  back  with  us.     Besides, 
there  is  not  room  in  the  cabin." 

She  did  not  know  why,  but  she  felt  guilty  for  a  mo- 
ment. Yet  she  had  done  nothing. 

"There  is  the  rain,"  said  Artois. 

They  were  just  entering  the  outer  room  from  which 
the  terrace  opened. 

"Vere!"  called  Hermione. 

As  she  called  the  lightning  flashed  again,  and  showed 
her  Vere  and  the  Marchesino  running  in  from  the  dark- 
ness. Vere  was  laughing,  and  looked  more  joyous  than 
before. 

"Such  a  storm,  Madrs!  The  sea  is  a  mass  of  foam. 
It's  glorious!  Hark  at  the  fishermen!" 

From  the  blackness  below  rose  hoarse  shouts  and  pro- 
longed calls — some  near,  some  far.  Faintly  with  them 
mingled  the  quavering  and  throaty  voice  of  the  blind 
man,  now  raised  in  "Santa  Lucia." 

"What  are  we  going  to  do,  Monsieur  Emile?" 

"We  must  get  home  at  once  before  it  gets  worse,"  said 
Hermione.  "Marchese,  I  am  so  sorry,  but  I  am  afraid 
we  must  ask  for  the  launch." 

"But,  madame,  it  is  only  a  squall.  By  midnight  it 
will  be  all  over.  I  promise  you.  I  am  a  Neapolitan." 

"Ah,  but  you  promised  that  there  would  be  no  storm 
at  all." 

"Sa-a-nta-a  Lu-u-ci-i-a!     Santa  Lu-cia!" 

The  blind  man  sounded  like  one  in  agony.  The 
thunder  crashed  again  just  above  him,  as  if  it  desired  to 
beat  down  his  sickly  voice. 

Artois  felt  a  sharp  stab  of  neuralgia  over  his  eyes. 

Behind,  in  the  restaurant,  the  waiters  were  running 
over  the  pavement  to  shut  the  great  windows.  The  rush 
of  the  rain  made  a  noise  like  quantities  of  silk  rustling. 

The  Marchesino  laughed,  quite  unabashed.  His  cheeks 
were  slightly  flushed  and  his  eye?  shone. 

182 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Could  I  tell  the  truth,  Signora?  You  might  have 
refused  to  come.  But  now  I  speak  the  solemn  truth. 
By  midnight — " 

"I'm  afraid  we  really  can't  stay  so  late  as  that." 

' '  But  there  is  a  piano.  I  wiii. play  valses.  I  will  sing. " 
He  looked  ardently  at  Vere,  who  was  eagerly  watching 
the  sea  from  the  window. 

"And  we  will  dance,  the  Signorina  and  I." 

Artois  made  a  brusque  movement  towards  the  terrace, 
muttering  something  about  the  launch.  A  glare  of 
lightning  lit  up  the  shore  immediately  below  the  terrace, 
showing  him  the  launch  buffeted  by  the  waves  that  were 
now  breaking  over  the  sandy  beach.  There  came  a 
summoning  call  from  the  sailors. 

"If  you  do  stay,"  Artois  said  to  the  Marchesino, 
turning  back  to  them,  "you  must  send  the  launch 
round  to  Mergellina.  I  don't  believe  it  can  stop 
here." 

"Well,  but  there  are  rocks,  Caro  Emilio.  It  is  pro- 
tected!" 

"Not  enough." 

"Signora,"  said  Gaspare,  "we  had  better  go.  It 
will  only  get  worse.  The  sea  is  not  too  bad  yet." 

' '  Come  along ! ' '  Hermione  cried ,  with  decision .  ' '  Come , 
Vere!  I'm  very  sorry,  Marchese,  but  we  must  really  get 
back  at  once.  Good-night,  Emile!  Gaspare,  give  me 
your  arm." 

And  she  set  off  at  once,  clinging  to  Gaspare,  who  held 
an  open  umbrella  over  her. 

"Good -night,  Vere!"  said  Artois. 

The  girl  was  looking  at  him  with  surprised  eyes. 

"You  are  going — 

"I  shall  take  the  tram." 

"Oh — of  course.     That  is  your  quickest  way." 

' '  Signorina — the  umbrella ! ' ' 

The  Marchesino  was  offering  his  arm  to  conduct  Vere 

183 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

to  the  launch.  He  cast  a  challenging  look  of  triumph 
at  Artois. 

"I  would  come  in  the  launch,"  Artois,  said  hastily. 
"But—  Good-night!" 

He  turned  away. 

"A  rivederci,  Emilio!"  called  the  Marchesino. 

"—  derci!" 

The  last  syllables  only  came  back  to  them  through  the 
wind  and  the  rain. 

"Take  my  arm,  Signorina." 

"Grazie,  it  is  all  right  like  this." 

"Ma—" 

"I  am  quite  covered,  really,  thank  you." 

She  hurried  on,  smiling,  but  not  taking  his  arm.  She 
knew  how  to  be  obstinate. 

"Ma  Signorina — mais  Mademoiselle — " 

"Gaspare!     Is  Madre  all  safe  in  the  launch?" 

Vere  glided  from  under  the  Marchesino's  umbrella  and 
sought  the  shade  of  Gaspare's.  Behind,  the  Marchesino 
was  murmuring  to  himself  Neapolitan  street  expressions. 

"SI,  Signorina." 

Gaspare's  face  had  suddenly  lighted  up.  His  Padron- 
cina's  little  hand  was  holding  tightly  to  his  strong  arm. 

"Take  care,  Signorina.     That  is  water!" 

"Oh,  I  was  nearly  in.     I  thought — 

He  almost  lifted  her  into  the  launch,  which  was  rising 
and  falling  on  the  waves. 

"Madre!     What  a  night!" 

Vere  sank  down  on  the  narrow  seat  of  the  little  cabin. 
The  Marchesino  jumped  aboard.  The  machine  in  the 
stern  throbbed.  They  rushed  forward  into  the  black- 
ness of  the  impenetrable  night,  the  white  of  the  leaping 
foam,  the  hissing  of  the  rain,  the  roaring  of  the  wind. 
In  a  blurred  and  hasty  vision  the  lights  of  Frisio's  ran 
before  them,  fell  back  into  the  storm  like  things  de- 
feated. Hermione  fancied  she  discerned  for  a  second  the 

184 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

blind  man's  scarlet  face  and  open  mouth,  the  Padrone  at 
a  window  waving  a  frantic  adieu,  having  only  just  be- 
come aware  of  their  departure.  But  if  it  were  so  they 
were  gone  before  she  knew — gone  into  mystery,  with 
Emile  and  the  world. 

The  Marchesino  inserted  himself  reproachfully  into 
the  cabin.  He  had  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  "smok- 
ing," and  drawn  the  silk  lapels  forward  over  his  soft  shirt- 
front.  His  white  gloves  were  saturated.  He  came  to 
sit  down  by  Vere.  s 

"Madame!"  he  said,  reproachfully,  "we  should  have 
waited.  The  sea  is  too  rough.  Really,  it  is  dangerous. 
And  the  Signorina  and  I — we  could  have  danced  together. ' ' 

Hermione  could  not  help  laughing,  though  she  did  not 
feel  gay. 

"I  should  not  have  danced,"  said  Vere.  "I  could  not. 
I  should  have  had  to  watch  the  storm." 

She  was  peering  out  of  the  cabin  window  at  the  wild 
foam  that  leaped  up  round  the  little  craft  and  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness.  There  was  no  sensation  of  fear 
in  her  heart,  only  a  passion  of  interest  and  an  odd  feeling 
of  triumph. 

To  dance  with  the  Marchesino  at  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio 
would  have  been  banal  in  comparison  with  this  glorious 
progress  through  the  night  in  the  teeth  of  opposing 
elements.  She  envied  Gaspare,  who  was  outside  with 
the  sailors,  and  whose  form  she  could  dimly  see,  a  blur 
against  the  blackness.  She  longed  to  take  off  her  smart 
little  hat  and  her  French  frock,  and  be  outside  too,  in  the 
wind  and  the  rairi. 

"It  is  ridiculous  to  be  dressed  like  this!"  she  said, 
quickly,  taking  off  the  glove  she  had  put  on  her  left  hand. 
"You  poor  Marchese!" 

She  looked  at  his  damp  "smoking,"  his  soaking  gloves 
and  deplorable  expression,  and  could  not  repress  a  little 
rush  of  laughter. 

185 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"  Do  forgive  me !  Madre,  I  know  I'm  behaving  shame- 
fully, but  we  are  all  so  hopelessly  inappropriate.  Your 
diamond  brooch,  Madre!  And  your  hat  is  all  on  one 
side.  Gaspare  must  have  knocked  it  with  the  um- 
brella. I  am  sure  we  all  look  like  hens  in  a  shower!" 

She  leaned  back  against  the  swaying  side  of  the  cabin 
and  laughed  till  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  The  sudden 
coming  of  the  storm  had  increased  the  excitement  that 
had  been  already  within  her,  created  by  the  incidents  of 
the  day. 

"Vere!"  said  her  mother,  but  smiling  through  the 
protest. 

The  Marchesino  showed  his  big  white  teeth.  Every- 
thing that  Vere  did  seemed  to  develop  his  admiration  for 
her.  He  was  delighted  with  this  mood,  and  forgot  his 
disappointment.  But  there  was  a  glint  of  wonder  in  his 
eyes,  and  now  he  said: 

"But  the  Signorina  is  not  afraid!  She  does  not  cry 
out!  She  does  not  call  upon  the  Madonna  and  the 
Saints!  My  mother,  my  sisters,  if  they  were  here — " 

The  prow  of  the  launch  struck  a  wave  which  burst 
over  the  bows,  scattering  spray  to  the  roof  of  the  cabin. 

"But  I  like  it,  I  love  it!"  said  Vere.  "Don't  you? — 
don't  you,  Madre?" 

Before  Hermione  could  reply  the  Marchesino  ex- 
claimed: 

"Signorina,  in  the  breast  of  an  angel  you  have  the 
heart  of  a  lion!  The  sea  will  never  harm  you.  How 
could  it  ?  It  will  treat  you  as  •  it  treats  the  Saint  of 
your  pool,  San  Francesco.  You  know  what  the  sailors 
and  the  fishermen  say  ?  In  the  wildest  storms,  when  the 
sea  crashes  upon  the  rocks,  never,  never  does  it  touch 
San  Francesco.  Never  does  it  put  out  the  lamp  that 
burns  at  San  Francesco's  feet." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  them  say  that,"  Vere  said. 

Suddenly  her  face  had  become  serious.  The  romance 

1 86 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

in  the  belief  of  the  seamen  had  got  hold  of  her,  had 
touched  her.  The  compliment  to  herself  she  ignored. 
Indeed,  she  had  already  forgotten  it. 

"Only  the  other  night — "  she  began. 

But  she  stopped  suddenly. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  changing  to  something  else, 
"that  when  the  fishermen  pass  under  San  Francesco's 
pedestal  they  bend  down,  and  lift  a  little  water  from  the 
sea,  and  sprinkle  it  into  the  boat,  and  make  the  sign  of 
the  cross.  They  call  it  'acqua  benedetta.'  I  love  to 
see  them  do  that." 

Another  big  wave  struck  the  launch  and  made  it 
shiver.  The  Marchesino  crossed  himself,  but  quite 
mechanically.  He  was  intent  on  Vere. 

"I  wonder,"  the  girl  said,  "whether  to-night  San 
Francesco  will  not  be  beaten  by  the  waves,  whether 
his  light  will  be  burning  when  we  reach  the  island." 

She  paused,  then  she  added,  in  a  lower  voice: 

"I  do  hope  it  will — don't  you,  Madre?" 

"Yes,  Vere,"  said  her  mother. 

Something  in  her  mother's  voice  made  the  girl  look 
up  at  her  swiftly,  then  put  a  hand  into  hers,  a  hand  that 
was  all  sympathy.  She  felt  that  just  then  her  mother's 
imagination  was  almost,  or  quite,  one  with  hers.  The 
lights  of  Naples  were  gone,  swallowed  by  the  blackness 
of  the  storm.  And  the  tiny  light  at  the  feet  of  the  Saint, 
of  San  Francesco,  who  protected  the  men  of  the  sea,  and 
the  boys — Ruffo,  too! — would  it  greet  them,  star  of  the 
sea  to  their  pool,  star  of  the  sea  to  their  island,  their 
Casa  del  Mare,  when  they  had  battled  through  the  storm 
to  San  Francesco's  feet? 

"I  do  hope  it  will." 

Why  did  Hermione's  heart  echo  Vere's  words  with  such 
a  strenuous  and  sudden  passion,  such  a  deep  desire? 
She  scarcely  knew  then.  But  she  knew  that  she  wanted 
a  light  to  be  shining  for  her  when  she  neared  home- 
's 187 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

longed  for  it,  needed  it  specially  that  night.  If  San 
Francesco's  lamp  were  burning  quietly  amid  the  fury 
of  the  sea  in  such  a  blackness  as  this  about  them — well, 
it  would  seem  like  an  omen.  She  would  take  it  as  an 
omen  of  happiness. 

And  if  it  were  not  burning  ? 

She,  too,  longed  to  be  outside  with  Gaspare  and  the 
sailors,  staring  into  the  darkness  with  eyes  keen  as  those 
of  a  seaman,  looking  for  the  light.  Since  Vere's  last 
words  and  her  reply  they  had  sat  in  silence.  Even  the 
Marchesino's  vivacity  was  suddenly  abated,  either  by 
the  increasing  violence  of  the  storm  or  by  the  change 
in  Vere.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  say  by  which. 
The  lightning  flashed.  The  thunder  at  moments  seemed 
to  split  the  sky  asunder  as  a  charge  of  gunpowder  splits 
asunder  a  rock.  The  head  wind  rushed  by,  yet  had  never 
passed  them,  but  was  forever  coming  furiously  to  meet 
them.  On  the  roof  of  the  little  cabin  the  rain  made  a 
noise  that  was  no  longer  like  the  rustle  of  silk,  but  was 
like  the  crackle  of  musketry. 

There  was  something  oppressive,  something  even  al- 
most terrible,  in  being  closely  confined,  shut  in  by  low 
roof  and  narrow  walls  from  such  sweeping  turbulence, 
such  a  clamor  of  wind  and  water  and  the  sky. 

Hermione  looked  at  her  diamond  brooch,  then  at  her 
cloak. 

Slowly  she  lifted  her  hand  and  began  to  button  it. 

Vere  moved  and  began  to  button  up  hers.  Hermione 
glanced  at  her,  and  saw  a  watchful,  shining,  half- humor- 
ous, half-passionate  look  in  her  eyes  that  could  not  be 
mistaken. 

She  dropped  her  hands. 

"No,  Vere!" 

"Yes,  Madre!     Yes,  yes,  yes!" 

The  Marchesino  stared. 

"No,  I  did  not— " 

188 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"You  did!  You  did,  Madre!  It's  no  use!  I  under- 
stood directly." 

She  began  quickly  to  take  off  her  hat. 

"Marchese,  we  are  going  out." 

"Vere,  this  is  absurd." 

"We  are  going  outside,  Marchese.     Madre  wants  air." 

The  Marchesino,  accustomed  only  to  the  habits  and 
customs  of  Neapolitan  women,  looked  frankly  as  if  he 
thought  Hermione  mad. 

"Poor  Madre  must  have  a  breath  of  air." 

"  I  will  open  the  window,  Signora!" 

"And  the  rain  all  over  her,  and  the  thunder  close  above 
her,  and  the  sea  in  her  face,  the  sea — the  sea!" 

She  clapped  her  hands. 

' '  Gasp  are !     Gasp  ar  e ! " 

She  put  her  face  to  the  glass.  Gaspare,  who  was 
standing  up  in  the  stern,  with  his  hands  holding  fast  to 
the  rail  that  edged  the  cabin  roof,  bent  down  till  his 
brown  face  was  on  a  level  with  hers,  and  his  big  eyes  were 
staring  inquiringly  into  her  eyes. 

"We  are  coming  out." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  glass  Gaspare  made  violently 
negative  gestures.  One  word  only  came  to  those  inside 
the  cabin  through  the  uproar  of  the  elements. 

"Impossible!" 

"Signorina,"  said  the  Marchesino,  "you  cannot  mean 
it.  But  you  will  be  washed  off.  And  the  water — you 
will  be  drowned.  It  cannot  be." 

"Marchese,  look  at  Madre!  If  she  stays  inside  an- 
other minute  she  will  be  ill.  She  is  stifling!  Quickly! 
Quickly!" 

The  Marchesino,  whose  sense  of  humor  was  not  of  a 
kind  to  comprehend  this  freak  of  Vere's,  was  for  once 
really  taken  aback.  There  were  two  sliding  doors  to  the 
cabin,  one  opening  into  the  bows  of  the  launch,  the  other 
into  the  stern.  He  got  up,  looking  very  grave  and  rather 

189 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

confused,  and  opened  the  former.  The  wind  rushed 
in,  carrying  with  it  spray  from  the  sea.  At  the  same 
moment  there  was  a  loud  tapping  on  the  glass  behind 
them.  Vere  looked  round.  Gaspare  was  crouching 
down  with  his  face  against  the  pane.  She  put  her  ear  to 
the  glass  by  his  mouth. 

"Signorina,  you  must  not  go  into  the  bows,"  he  called. 
"If  you  will  come  out,  come  here,  and  I  will  take  care 
of  you." 

He  knew  Vere's  love  of  the  sea  and  understood  her 
desire. 

"Go,  Vere,"  said  Hermione. 

The  Marchesino  shut  the  door  and  stood  by  it,  bend- 
ing and  looking  doubtful. 

' '  I  will  stay  here  with  the  Marchese.  I  am  really  too 
old  to  face  such  a  tempest,  and  the  Marchese  has  no  coat. 
He  simply  can't  go." 

"But,  Signora,  it  does  not  matter!     I  am  ready." 

"Impossible.  Your  clothes  would  be  ruined.  Go 
along,  Vere!  Turn  up  your  collar." 

She  spoke  almost  as  if  to  a  boy,  and  like  a  gay  boy 
Vere  obeyed  her  and  slipped  out  to  Gaspare. 

"You  really  won't  come,  Madre?" 

"No.     But — tell  me  if  you  see  the  light." 

The  girl  nodded,  and  the  door  moved  into  its  place, 
shutting  out  the  wind. 

Then  the  Marchesino  sat  down  and  looked  at  his  damp 
patent-leather  boots. 

He  really  could  not  comprehend  these  English  ladies. 
That  Vere  was  greatly  attracted  by  him  he  thoroughly 
believed.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Her  liveliness 
he  considered  direct  encouragement.  And  then  she  had 
gone  out  to  the  terrace  after  dinner,  leaving  her  mother. 
That  was  to  make  him  follow  her,  of  course.  She  wanted 
to  be  alone  with  him.  In  a  Neapolitan  girl  such  con- 
duct would  have  been  a  declaration.  A  Neapolitan 

190 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

mother  would  not  have  allowed  them  to  sit  together  on 
the  terrace  without  a  chaperon.  But  the  English  mother 
had  deliberately  remained  within  and  had  kept  Caro 
Emilio  with  her.  What  could  such  conduct  mean,  if  not 
that  the  Signorina  was  in  love  with  him,  the  Marchesino, 
and  that  the  Signorina's  mamma  was  perfectly  willing  for 
him  to  make  love  to  her  child  ? 

And  yet — and  yet  ? 

There  was  something  in  Vere  that  puzzled  him,  that 
had  kept  him  strangely  discreet  upon  the  terrace,  that 
made  him  silent  and  thoughtful  now.  Had  she  been  a 
typical  English  girl  he  might  have  discerned  something 
of  the  truth  of  her.  But  Vere  was  lively,  daring,  pas- 
sionate, and  not  without  some  traces  of  half -humorous 
and  wholly  innocent  coquetry.  She  was  not  at  all  what 
the  Neapolitan  calls  "a  lump  of  snow  to  cool  the  wine." 
In  her  innocence  there  was  fire.  That  was  what  confused 
the  Marchesino. 

He  stared  at  the  cabin  door  by  which  Vere  had  gone 
out,  and  his  round  eyes  became  almost  pathetic  for  a 
moment.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  this 
exit  was  a  second  ruse,  like  Vere's  departure  to  the  ter- 
race, and  he  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  out  and  brave 
the  storm.  But  Hermione  stopped  him  decisively. 

"No,  Marchese,"  she  said,  "really  I  cannot  let  you 
expose  yourself  to  the  rain  and  the  sea  in  that  airy 
costume.  I  might  be  your  mother." 

"Signora,  but  you — " 

"No,  compliments  apart,  I  really  might  be,  and  you 
must  let  me  use  a  mother's  authority.  Till  we  reach 
the  island  stay  here  and  make  the  best  of  me." 

Hermione  had  touched  the  right  note.  Metaphorically, 
the  Marchesino  cast  himself  at  her  feet.  With  a  gallant 
assumption  of  undivided  adoration  he  burst  into  con- 
versation, and,  though  his  eyes  often  wandered  to  the 
blurred  glass,  against  which  pressed  and  swayed  a  black- 

191 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ness  that  told  of  those  outside,  his  sense  of  his  duty  as  a 
host  gradually  prevailed,  and  he  and  Hermione  were 
soon  talking  quite  cheerfully  together. 

Vere  had  forgotten  him  as  utterly  as  she  had  forgotten 
Naples,  swallowed  up  by  the  night.  Just  then  only  the 
sea,  the  night,  Gaspare,  and  the  two  sailors  who  were 
managing  the  launch  were  real  to  her — besides  herself. 
For  a  moment  even  her  mother  had  ceased  to  exist  in  her 
consciousness.  As  the  sea  swept  the  deck  of  the  little 
craft  it  swept  her  mind  clear  to  make  more  room  for 
itself. 

She  stood  by  Gaspare,  touching  him,  and  clinging  on, 
as  he  did,  to  the  rail.  Impenetrably  black  was  the  night. 
Only  here  and  there,  at  distances  she  could  not  begin  to 
judge  of,  shone  vaguely  lights  that  seemed  to  dance  and 
fade  and  reappear  like  marsh  lights  in  a  world  of  mist. 
Were  they  on  sea  or  land?  She  could  not  tell  and  did 
not  ask.  The  sailors  doubtless  knew,  but  she  respected 
them  and  their  duty  too  much  to  speak  to  them,  though 
she  had  given  them  a  srnile  as  she  came  out  to  join  them, 
and  had  received  two  admiring  salutes  in  reply.  Gas- 
pare, too,  had  smiled  at  her  with  a  pleasure  which  swiftly 
conquered  the  faint  reproach  in  his  eloquent  eyes.  He 
liked  his  Padroncina's  courage,  liked  the  sailors  of  the 
Signor  Marchese  to  see  it.  He  was  soaked  to  the  skin, 
but  he,  too,  was  enjoying  the  adventure,  a  rare  one  on 
this  summer  sea,  which  had  slept  through  so  many  shin- 
ing days  and  starry  nights  like  a  "bambino  in  dolce 
letargo." 

To-night  it  was  awake,  and  woke  up  others,  Vere's 
nature  and  his. 

"Where  is  the  island,  Gaspare?"  cried  Vere  through 
the  wind  to  him. 

"Chi  lo  sa,  Signorina." 

He  waved  one  hand  to  the  blackness  before  them. 

"It  must  be  there." 

192 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

She  strained  her  eyes,  then  looked  away  towards  where 
the  land  must  be.  At  a  long  distance  across  the  leaping 
foam  she  saw  one  light.  As  the  boat  rose  and  sank  on 
the  crests  and  into  the  hollows  of  the  waves  the  light 
shone  and  faded,  shone  and  faded.  She  guessed  it  to 
be  a  light  at  the  Antico  Giuseppone.  Despite  the  head 
wind  and  the  waves  that  met  them  the  launch  travelled 
bravely,  and  soon  the  light  was  gone.  She  told  herself1 
that  it  must  have  been  at  the  Giuseppone,  and  that  now 
they  had  got  beyond  the  point,  and  were  opposite  to  the 
harbor  of  the  Villa  Rosebery.  But  no  lights  greeted 
them  from  the  White  Palazzo  in  the  wood,  or  from  the 
smaller  white  house  low  down  beside  tr..?  sea.  And 
again  she  looked  straight  forward. 

Now  she  was  intent  on  San  Francesco.  She  was  think- 
ing of  him,  of  the  Pool,  of  the  island.  And  she  thrilled 
with  joy  at  the  thought  of  the  wonderful  wildness  of  her 
home.  As  they  drew  on  towards  it  the  waves  were 
bigger,  the  wind  was  stronger.  Even  on  calm  nights 
there  was  always  a  breeze  when  one  had  passed  the 
Giuseppone  going  towards  Ischia,  and  beyond  the  island 
there  was  sometimes  quite  a  lively  sea.  What  would  it 
be  to-night  ?  Her  heart  cried  out  for  a  crescendo.  With- 
in her,  at  that  moment,  was  a  desire  like  the  motorist's 
for  speed.  More!  more!  More  wind!  more  sea!  more 
uproar  from  the  elements ! 

And  San  Francesco  all  alone  in  this  terrific  blackness! 
Had  he  not  been  dashed  from  his  pedestal  by  the  waves  ? 
Was  the  light  at  his  feet  still  burning? 

"II  Santo!"  she  said  to  Gaspare. 

He  bent  his  head  till  it  was  close  to  her  lips. 

"II  Santo!     What  has  become  of  him,  Gaspare?" 

"He  will  be  there,  Signorina." 

So  Gaspare,  too,  held  to  the  belief  of  the  seamen  of  the 
Bay.  He  had  confidence  in  the  -obedience  of  the  sea, 
this  sea  that  roared  around  them  like  a  tyrant.  Sud- 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

denly  she  had  no  doubt.  It  would  be  so.  The  saint 
would  be  untouched.  The  light  would  still  be  burning. 
She  looked  for  it.  And  now  she  remembered  her  mother. 
She  must  tell  her  mother  directly  she  saw  it.  But  all  was 
blackness  still. 

And  the  launch  seemed  weary,  like  a  live  thing  whose 
strength  is  ebbing,  who  strains  and  pants  and  struggles 
gallantly,  not  losing  heart  but  losing  physical  force. 
Surely  it  was  going  slower.  She  laid  one  hand  upon  the 
cabin  roof  as  if  in  encouragement.  Her  heart  was  with 
the  launch,  as  the  seaman's  is  with  his  boat  when  it  re- 
sists, surely  for  his  sake  consciously,  the  assault  of  the 
great  sea. 

"Coraggio!" 

She  was  murmuring  the  word.  Gaspare  looked  at  her. 
And  the  word  was  in  his  eyes  as  it  should  be  in  all  eyes 
that  look  at  youth.  And  the  launch  strove  on. 

"Coraggio!     Coraggio!" 

The  spray  was  in  her  face.  Her  hair  was  wet  with  the 
rain.  Her  French  frock — that  was  probably  ruined! 
But  she  knew  that  she  had  never  felt  more  happy.  And 
now — it  was  like  a  miracle!  Suddenly  out  of  the  dark- 
ness a  second  darkness  shaped  itself,  a  darkness  that  she 
knew — the  island.  And  almost  simultaneously  there 
shone  out  a  little,  steady  light. 

"Ecco  il  Santo!" 

"Ecco!     Ecco!" 

Vere  called  out:  "Madre!     Madre!" 

She  bent  down. 

"Madre!     The  light  is  burning." 

The  sailors,  too,  bent  down,  right  down  to  the  water. 
They  caught  at  it  with  their  hands,  Gaspare,  too.  Vere 
understood,  and,  kneeling  on  the  gunwale,  firmly  in 
Gaspare's  grasp,  she  joined  in  their  action. 

She  sprinkled  the  boat  with  the  acqua  benedetta  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

194 


CHAPTER   XIV 

WHEN,  the  next  day,  Artois  sat  down  at  his  table  to 
work  he  found  it  impossible  to  concentrate  his  mind. 
The  irritation  of  the  previous  evening  had  passed  away. 
He  attributed  it  to  the  physical  effect  made  upon  him 
by  the  disturbed  atmosphere.  Now  the  sun  shone,  the 
sky  was  clear,  the  sea  calm.  He  had  just  come  out  of  an 
ice-cold  bath,  had  taken  his  coffee,  and  smoked  one 
cigarette.  A  quiet  morning  lay  before  him.  Quiet? 

He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window. 

On  the  wooden  roof  of  the  bath  establishment  op- 
posite rows  of  towels,  hung  out  to  dry,  were  moving 
listlessly  to  and  fro  in  the  soft  breeze.  Capri  was  almost 
hidden  by  haze  in  the  distance.  In  the  sea,  just  below 
him,  several  heads  of  swimmers  moved.  One  boy  was 
"making  death."  He  floated  on  his  back  with  his  eyes 
closed  and  his  arms  extended.  His  body,  giving  itself 
without  resistance  to  every  movement  of  the  water, 
looked  corpselike  and  ghostly. 

A  companion  shouted  to  him.  He  threw  up  his  arms 
suddenly  and  shouted  a  reply  in  the  broadest  Neapolitan, 
then  began  to  swim  vigorously  towards  the  slimy  rocks  at 
the  base  of  Castel  dell'  Ovo.  Upon  the  wooden  terrace 
of  the  baths  among  green  plants  in  pots  stood  three 
women,  probably  friends  of  the  proprietor.  For  though 
it  was  already  hot,  the  regular  bathing  season  of  Naples 
had  not  yet  begun  and  the  baths  were  not  completed. 
Only  in  July,  after  the  festa  of  the  Madonna  del  Carmine, 
do  the  Neapolitans  give  themselves  heart  and  soul  to  the 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

sea.  Artois  knew  this,  and  wondered  idly  what  the 
women  were  doing  on  the  terrace.  One  had  a  dog.  It 
sat  in  the  sun  and  began  to  cough.  A  long  wagon  on 
two  wheels  went  by,  drawn  by  two  mules  and  a  thin 
horse  harnessed  abreast.  It  was  full  of  white  stone. 
The  driver  had  bought  some  green  stuff  and  flung  it 
down  upon  the  white.  He  wore  a  handkerchief  on  his 
head.  His  chest  was  bare.  As  he  passed  beneath  the 
window  he  sang  a  loud  song  that  sounded  Eastern,  such 
a  song  as  the  Spanish  wagoners  sing  in  Algeria,  as  they 
set  out  by  night  on  their  long  journeys  towards  the  desert. 
Upon  a  tiny  platform  of  wood,  fastened,  to  slanting 
stakes  which  met  together  beneath  it  in  a  tripod,  a  stout 
man  in  shirt  and  trousers,  with  black  whiskers,  was  sitting 
on  a  chair  fishing  with  a  rod  and  line.  A  boy  sat  beside 
him  dangling  his  legs  over  the  water.  At  a  little  distance 
a  large  fishing-smack,  with  sails  set  to  catch  the  breeze 
farther  out  in  the  Bay,  was  being  laboriously  rowed 
towards  the  open  sea  by  half-naked  men,  who  shouted 
as  they  toiled  at  the  immense  oars. 

Artois  wondered  where  they  were  going.  Their  skins 
were  a  rich  orange  color.  From  a  distance  in  the  sun- 
light they  looked  like  men  of  gold.  Their  cries  and  their 
fierce  movements  suggested  some  fantastic  quest  to  lands 
of  mysterious  tumult. 

Artois  wished  that  Vere  could  see  them. 

What  were  the  inhabitants  of  the  island  doing? 

To-day  his  mind  was  beyond  his  governance,  and 
roamed  like  a  vagrant  on  a  long,  white  road.  Every- 
thing that  he  saw  below  him  in  the  calm  radiance  of  the 
morning  pushed  it  from  thought  to  thought.  Yet  none 
of  these  thoughts  were  valuable.  None  seemed  fully 
formed.  They  resembled  henids,  things  seen  so  far  away 
that  one  cannot  tell  what  they  are,  but  is  only  aware  that 
they  exist  and  can  attract  attention. 

He  came  out  upon  his  balcony.  As  he  did  so  he  looked 

196 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

down  into  the  road,  and  saw  a  hired  carriage  drive  up, 
with  Hermione  in  it. 

She  glanced  up  and  saw  him. 

"May  I  come  in  for  a  minute?" 

He  nodded,  smiling,  and  went  out  to  meet  her,  glad 
of  this  interruption. 

They  met  at  the  door  of  the  lift.  As  Hermione  stepped 
out  she  cast  a  rather  anxious  glance  at  her  friend,  a 
glance  that  seemed  to  say  that  she  was  not  quite  certain 
of  her  welcome.  Artois'  eyes  reassured  her. 

"I  feel  guilty,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"Coming  at  such  an  hour.     Are  you  working?" 

"No.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  am  incapable  of  work. 
I  feel  both  lazy  and  restless,  an  unfruitful  combination. 
Perhaps  something  in  me  secretly  knew  that  you  were 
coming." 

"Then  it  is  my  fault." 

They  came  into  his  sitting-room.  It  had  four  win- 
dows, tw )  facing  the  sea,  two  looking  on  the  road,  and 
the  terraces  and  garden  of  the  Hotel  Hassler.  The 
room  scarcely  suggested  its  present  occupant.  It  con- 
tained a  light-yellow  carpet  with  pink  flowers  strewn  over 
it,  red-and-gold  chairs,  mirrors,  a  white  marble  mantel- 
piece, a  gray-and-pink  sofa  with  a  pink  cushion.  Only 
the  large  writing-table,  covered  with  manuscripts,  letters, 
and  photographs  in  frames,  said  something  individual 
to  the  visitor.  Hermione  and  Vere  were  among  the 
photographs. 

Hermione  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

"I  have  come  to  consult  you  about  something, 
Emile." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  really  meant  to  ask  you  last  night,  but  somehow 
I  couldn't." 

"Why?" 

197 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  don't  know.  We — I — there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of 
barrier  between  us — didn't  there?" 

"I  was  in  a  bad  humor.  I  was  tired  after  the  journey, 
and  perhaps  the  weather  upset  me." 

"It's  all  right — one  can't  be  always —  Well,  this  is 
what  I  wanted  to  say.  I  alluded  to  it  yesterday  when 
I  told  you  about  my  visit  to  Naples  with  Madame 
Alliani.  Do  you  remember  ?" 

"You  hinted  you  had  seen,  or  heard  of,  some  trag- 
edy." 

"Yes.  I  believe  it  is  a  quite  ordinary  one  in  Naples. 
We  went  to  visit  a  consumptive  woman  in  one  of  those 
narrow  streets  going  uphill  to  the  left  of  the  Via  Roma, 
and  while  there  by  chance  I  heard  of  it.  In  the  same 
house  as  the  sick  woman  there  is  a  girl.  Not  many  days 
ago  she  was  beautiful!" 

' '  Yes  ?     What  has  happened  to  her  ? ' ' 

"I'll  tell  you.  Her  name  is  Peppina.  She  is  only 
nineteen,  but  she  has  been  one  of  those  who  are  not  given 
a  chance.  She  was  left  an  orphan  v^ery  young  and  went 
to  live  with  an  aunt.  This  aunt  is  a  horrible  old  woman. 
I  believe — they  say  she  goes  to  the  Galleria — " 

Hermione  paused. 

"I  understand,"  said  Artois. 

"She  is  greedy,  wicked,  merciless.  We  had  the  story 
from  the  woman  we  were  visiting,  a  neighbor.  This 
aunt  forced  Peppina  into  sin.  Her  beauty,  which  must 
have  been  extraordinary,  naturally  attracted  attention 
and  turned  people's  heads.  It  seems  to  have  driven  one 
man  nearly  mad.  He  is  a  fisherman,  not  young,  and  a 
married  man.  It  seems  that  he  is  notoriously  violent 
and  jealous,  and  thoroughly  unscrupulous.  He  is  a 
member  of  the  Camorra,  too.  He  pestered  Peppina  with 
his  attentions,  coming  day  after  day  from  Mergellina, 
where  he  lives  with  his  wife.  One  night  he  entered  the 
house  and  made  a  scene.  Peppina  refused  finally  to 

198 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

receive  his  advances,  and  told  him  she  hated  him  before 
all  the  neighbors.     He  took  out  a  razor  and — " 

Hermione  stopped. 

"I  understand,"  said  Artois.     "He  disfigured  her." 

"Dreadfully." 

"It  is  often  done  here.  Sometimes  a  youth  does  it 
simply  to  show  that  a  girl  is  his  property.  But  what  is  it 
you  wish  to  do  for  Peppina?  I  see  you  have  a  plan  in 
your  head." 

"I  want  to  have  her  on  the  island." 

"In  what  capacity?" 

"As  a  servant.  She  can  work.  She  is  not  a  bad  girl. 
She  has  only — well,  Emile,  the  aunt  only  succeeded  in 
forcing  one  lover  on  her.  That  is  the  truth.  He  was 
rich  and  bribed  the  aunt.  But  of  course  the  neighbors 
all  know,  and — the  population  here  has  its  virtues,  but  it 
is  not  exactly  a  delicate  population." 

"Per  Bacco!" 

"And  now  that  the  poor  girl  is  disfigured  the  aunt  is 
going  to  turn  her  out-of-doors.  She  says  Peppina  must 
go  and  earn  money  for  herself.  Of  course  nobody  will 
take  her.  I  want  to.  I  have  seen  her,  talked  to  her. 
She  would  be  so  thankful.  She  is  in  despair.  Think 
of  it!  Nineteen,  and  all  her  beauty  gone!  Isn't  it 
devilish?" 

"And  the  man?" 

"Oh,  they  say  he'll  get  scarcely  anything,  if  anything. 
Two  or  three  months,  perhaps.  He  is  'protected.'  It 
makes  my  blood  boil." 

Artois  was  silent,  waiting  for  her  to  say  more,  to  ask 
questions. 

"The  only  thing  is — Vere,  Emile,"  she  said. 

"Vere?" 

"Yes.  You  know  how  friendly  she  is  with  the  ser- 
vants. I  like  her  to  be.  But  of  course  till  now  they 
have  been  all  right — so  far  as  I  know." 

199 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"You  do  well  to  add  that  proviso." 

"Peppina  would  not  wait  on  us.  She  would  be  in  the 
kitchen.  Am  I  justified  in  taking  her?  Of  course  I 
could  help  her  with  money.  If  I  had  not  seen  her,  talked 
to  her,  that  is  what  I  should  have  done,  no  doubt.  But 
she  wants — she  wants  everything,  peace,  a  decent  home, 
pure  air.  I  feel  she  wants  the  island?" 

"And  the  other  servants?" 

"They  need  only  know  she  was  attacked.  They  need 
not  know  her  past  history.  But  all  that  does  not  matter. 
It  is  only  the  question  of  Vere  that  troubles  me." 

"You  mean  that  you  are  not  decided  whether  you 
ought  to  bring  into  the  house  with  Vere  a  girl  who  is 
not  as  Vere  is?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  want  me  to  advise  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  can't  do  that,  Hermione." 

She  looked  at  him  almost  as  if  she  were  startled. 

"Why  not?     I  always  rely — 

"No,  no.     This  is  not  a  man's  business,  my  business." 

He  spoke  with  an  odd  brusqueness,  and  there  were 
traces  of  agitation  in  his  face.  Hermione  did  not  at  all 
understand  what  feeling  was  prompting  him,  but  again, 
as  on  the  previous  evening,  she  felt  as  if  there  were 
a  barrier  between  them — very  slight,  perhaps,  very 
shadowy,  but  definite  nevertheless.  There  was  no  longer 
complete  frankness  in  their  relations.  At  moments  her 
friend  seemed  to  be  subtly  dominated  by  some  secret 
irritation,  or  anxiety,  which  she  did  not  comprehend. 
She  had  been  aware  of  it  yesterday.  She  was  aware  of  it 
now.  After  his  last  exclamation  she  said  nothing. 

"You  are  going  to  this  girl  now?"  he  asked. 

"I  meant  to.     Yes,  I  shall  go." 

She  sat  still  for  a  minute,  looking  down  at  the  pink- 
and-yellow  carpet. 

200 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"And  what  will  you  do?" 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  think  I  shall  take  her  to  the  island.  I  am  almost 
sure  I  shall.  Emile,  I  don't  believe  in  cowardice,  and  I 
sometimes  think  I  am  inclined  to  be  a  coward  about 
Vere.  She  is  growing  up.  She  will  be  seventeen  this 
year,  very  soon.  There  are  girls  who  marry  at  sixteen, 
even  English  girls." 

"That  is  true." 

She  could  gather  nothing  from  his  tone;  and  now  his 
face  was  perfectly  calm. 

"My  instinct  is  to  keep  Vere  just  as  she  is,  to  preserve 
the  loveliness  of  childhood  in  her  as  long  as  possible,  to 
keep  away  from  her  all  knowledge  of  sin,  sorrow,  the 
things  that  distract  and  torture  the  world.  But  I 
mustn't  be  selfish  about  Vere.  I  mustn't  keep  her 
wrapped  in  cotton  wool.  That  is  unwholesome.  And, 
after  all,  Vere  must  have  her  life  apart  from  me.  Last 
night  I  realized  that  strongly." 

"Last  night?" 

"Yes,  from  the  way  in  which  she  treated  the  Marchese, 
and  later  from  something  else.  Last  night  Vere  showed 
two  sides  of  a  woman's  nature — the  capacity  to  hold  her 
own,  what  is  vulgarly  called  'to  keep  her  distance,'  and 
the  capacity  to  be  motherly." 

"Was  Vere  motherly  to  the  Marchesino,  then?"  asked 
Artois,  not  without  irony. 

"No— to  Ruffo." 

"That  boy  ?     But  where  was  he  last  night  ?" 

"When  we  got  back  to  the  island,  and  the  launch  had 
gone  off,  Vere  and  I  stood  for  a  minute  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps  to  listen  to  the  roaring  of  the  sea.  Vere  loves  the 
sea." 

"I  know  that." 

As  he  spoke  he  thought  of  something  that  Hermione 
did  not  know. 

201 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"The  pool  was  protected,  and  under  the  lee  of  the 
island  it  was  comparatively  calm.  But  the  rain  was 
falling  in  torrents.  There  was  one  fishing-boat  in  the 
pool,  close  to  where  we  were,  and  as  we  were  standing 
and  listening  Vere  said,  suddenly,  'Madre,  that's  Ruffo's 
boat!'  I  asked  her  how  she  knew  —  because  he  has 
changed  into  another  boat  lately — she  had  told  me  that. 
'  I  saw  his  head,'  she  answered.  '  He's  there  and  he's  not 
asleep.  Poor  boy,  in  all  this  rain!'  Ruffo  has  been  ill 
with  fever,  as  I  told  you,  and  when  Vere  said  that  I  re- 
membered it  at  once." 

"Had  you  told  Vere  yet?"  interposed  Artois. 

"No.  But  I  did  then.  Emile,  she  showed  an  agita- 
tion that — well,  it  was  almost  strange,  I  think.  She 
begged  me  to  make  him  come  into  the  house  and  spend 
the  night  there,  safe  from  the  wind  and  the  rain." 

"And  you  did,  of  course?" 

"Yes.  He  was  looking  very  pale  and  shaky.  The 
men  let  him  come.  They  were  nice  and  sympathetic. 
I  think  they  are  fond  of  the  boy." 

"Ruffo  seems  to  know  how  to  attract  people  to  him." 

"Yes." 

"And  so  Vere  played  the  mother  to  Ruffo  ?" 

"Yes.  I  never  saw  that  side  of  her  before.  She  was 
a  woman  then.  Eventually  Ruffo  slept  with  Gaspare." 

"And  how  did  Gaspare  accept  the  situation?" 

"Better  than  I  should  have  expected.  I  think  he 
likes  Ruffo  personally,  though  he  is  inclined  to  be  sus- 
picious and  jealous  of  any  strangers  who  come  into  our 
lives.  But  I  haven't  had  time  to  talk  to  him  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Is  Ruffo  still  in  the  house?" 

"Oh  no.  He  went  off  in  the  boat.  They  came  for 
him  about  eight." 

"Ah!" 

Artois  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  But  now 

202 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

he  saw  nothing,  although  the  three  women  were  still 
talking  and  gesticulating  on  the  terrace  of  the  bath- 
house, more  fishing-boats  were  being  towed  or  rowed 
out  into  the  Bay,  carts  were  passing  by,  and  people  were 
strolling  in  the  sun. 

"You  say  that  Vere  showed  agitation  last  night?"  he 
said,  turning  round  after  a  moment. 

"About  Ruffo's  illness?  It  really  almost  amounted 
to  that.  But  Vere  was  certainly  excited.  Didn't  you 
notice  it?" 

"I  think  she  was." 

"Emile,"  Hermione  said,  after  an  instant  of  hesitation, 
"you  remember  my  saying  to  you  the  other  day  that 
Vere  was  not  a  stranger  to  me?" 

"Yes,  quite  well." 

"You  said  nothing — I  don't  think  you  agreed.  Well, 
since  that  day — only  since  then — I  have  sometimes  felt 
that  there  is  much  in  Vere  that  I  do  not  understand, 
much  that  is  hidden  from  me.  Has  she  changed  lately  ?" 

"She  is  at  an  age  when  development  seems  sudden, 
and  is  often  striking,  even  startling." 

"I  don't  know  why,  but — -but  I  dread  something," 
Hermione  said.  "I  feel  as  if — no,  I  don't  know  what  I 
feel.  But  if  Vere  should  ever  drift  away  from  me  I  don't 
know  how  I  could  bear  it.  A  boy — one  expects  him  to 
go  out  into  the  world.  But  a  girl!  I  want  to  keep 
Vere.  I  must  keep  Vere.  If  anything  else  were  to  be 
taken  from  me  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  it." 

"Vere  loves  you.     Be  sure  of  that." 

"Yes." 

Hermione  got  up. 

"Well,  you  won't  give  me  your  advice?" 

"No,  Hermione." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"You  must  treat  Vere  as  you  think  best,  order  her 
life  as  you  think  right.  In  some  things  you  do  wisely 
14  203 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

to  consult  me.  But  in  this  you  must  rely  on  yourself. 
Let  your  heart  teach  you.  Do  not  ask  questions  of  my 
head." 

"Your  head!"  she  exclaimed. 

There  was  a  trace  of  disappointment,  even  of  surprise, 
in  her  voice.  She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  were  going 
to  say  more,  but  again  she  was  disconcerted  by  some- 
thing in  his  look,  his  attitude. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Emile." 

"I  will  come  with  you  to  the  lift." 

He  went  with  her  and  touched  the  electric  bell.  As 
they  waited  for  a  moment  he  added: 

"I  should  like  to  have  an  evening  quietly  on  the 
island." 

"Come  to-night,  or  whenever  you  like.  Don't  fix  a 
time.  Come  when  the  inclination  whispers — 'I  want 
to  be  with  friends.'" 

He  pressed  her  hand. 

"Shall  I  see  Peppina?" 

"Chi  lo  sa?" 

"And  Ruffo?" 

She  laughed. 

"The  Marchesino,  too,  perhaps." 

"No,"  said  Artois,  emphatically.  "Disfigured  girls 
and  fisher-boys — as  many  as  you  like,  but  not  the  alta 
aristocrazia  Napoletana." 

"But  I  thought—" 

"I  like  Doro,  but — I  like  him  in  his  place." 

"And  his  place?" 

"Is  not  the  island — when  I  wish  to  be  quiet  there." 

The  lift  descended.  Artois  went  out  once  more 
onto  the  balcony,  and  watched  her  get  into  the  carriage 
and  drive  away  towards  Naples.  She  did  not  look  up 
again. 

"She  has  gone  to  fetch  that  girl  Peppina,"  Artois  said 
to  himself,  "and  I  might  have  prevented  it." 

204 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  knew  very  well  the  reason  why  he  had  not  in- 
terfered. He  had  not  interfered  because  he  had  wished 
too  much  to  interfere.  The  desire  had  been  strong 
enough  to  startle  him,  to  warn  him. 

An  islet!  That  suggests  isolation.  Like  Hermione, 
he  wished  to  isolate  Vere,  to  preserve  her  as  she  was  in 
character.  He  did  not  know  when  the  wish  had  first 
been  consciously  in  his  mind,  but  he  knew  that  since  he 
had  been  consulted  by  Vere,  since  she  had  broken 
through  her  reserve  and  submitted  to  him  her  poems, 
unveiling  for  him  alone  what  was  really  to  her  a  holy 
of  holies,  the  wish  had  enormously  increased.  He  told 
himself  that  Vere  was  unique,  and  that  he  longed  to  keep 
her  unique,  so  that  the  talent  he  discerned  in  her  might 
remain  unaffected.  How  great  her  talent  was  he  did 
not  know.  He  would  not  know,  perhaps,  for  a  very  long 
time.  But  it  was  definite,  it  was  intimate.  It  was 
Vere's  talent,  no  one  else's. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  very  soon  about  Hermione 's 
incapacity  to  produce  work  of  value.  Although  Vere 
was  such  a  child,  so  inexperienced,  so  innocent,  so 
cloistered,  he  knew  at  once  that  he  dared  not  dash  her 
hopes.  It  was  possible  that  she  might  eventually  be- 
come what  her  mother  certainly  could  never  be. 

But  she  must  not  be  interfered  with.  Her  connec- 
tion with  the  sea  must  not  be  severed.  And  people 
were  coming  into  her  life — Ruffo,  the  Marchesino,  and 
now  this  wounded  girl  Peppina. 

Artois  felt  uneasy.  He  wished  Hermione  were  less 
generous-hearted,  less  impulsive.  She  looked  on  him  as 
a  guide,  a  check.  He  knew  that.  But  this  time  he 
would  not  exercise  his  prerogative.  Ruffo  he  did  not 
mind — at  least  he  thought  he  did  not.  The  boy  was  a 
sea  creature.  He  might  even  be  an  inspiring  force  to 
Vere.  Something  Artois  had  read  had  taught  him  that. 
And  Ruffo  interested  him,  attracted  him  too. 

205 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

But  he  hated  Vere's  acquaintance  with  the  Mar- 
chesino.  He  knew  that  the  Marchesino  would  make 
love  to  her.  And  the  knowledge  was  odious  to  him. 
Let  Vere  be  loved  by  the  sea,  but  by  no  man  as 
yet. 

And  this  girl,  Peppina? 

He  thought  of  the  horrors  of  Naples,  of  the  things  that 
happen  "behind  the  shutter,"  of  the  lives  led  by  some 
men  and  women,  some  boys  and  girls  of  the  great  city 
beneath  the  watching  volcano.  He  thought  of  evenings 
he  had  spent  in  the  Galleria.  He  saw  before  him  an  old 
woman  about  whom  he  had  often  wondered.  Always 
at  night,  and  often  in  the  afternoon,  she  walked  in  the 
Galleria.  She  was  invariably  alone.  The  first  time  he 
had  seen  her  he"  had  noticed  her  because  she  had  a  slight- 
ly humped  back.  Her  hair  was  snow  white,  and  was 
drawn  away  from  her  long,  pale  face  and  carefully  ar- 
ranged under  a  modest  bonnet.  She  carried  a  small 
umbrella  and  a  tiny  bag.  Glancing  at  her  casually,  he 
had  supposed  her  to  be  a  respectable  widow  of  the  bor- 
ghese  class.  But  then  he  had  seen  her  again  and  again, 
and  by  degrees  he  had  come  to  believe  that  she  was 
something  very  different.  And  then  one  night  in  late 
spring  he  had  seen  her  in  a  new  light  dress  with  white 
thread  gloves.  And  she  had  noticed  him  watching  her, 
and  had  cast  upon  him  a  look  that  was  unmistakable, 
a  look  from  the  world  "behind  the  shutter";  and  he 
had  understood.  Then  she  had  followed  him  persist- 
ently. When  he  sat  before  the  "Gran  caffe"  sipping 
his  coffee  and  listening  to  the  orchestra  of  women  that 
plays  on  the  platform  outside  the  caffe,  she  had  passed 
and  repassed,  always  casting  upon  him  that  glance  of 
sinister  understanding,  of  invitation,  of  dreary  wicked- 
ness that  sought  for,  and  believed  that  it  had  found, 
an  answering  wickedness  in  him. 

Terrible  old  woman!  Peppina's  aunt  might  well  be 

206 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

like  that.  And  Peppina  would  sleep,  perhaps  to-night, 
in  the  Casa  del  Mare,  under  the  same  roof  as  Vere. 

He  resolved  to  go  that  evening  to  the  island,  to  see 
Peppina,  to  see  Vere.  He  wished,  too,  to  have  A  little 
talk  with  Gaspare  about  Ruffo. 

The  watch-dog  instinct,  which  dwelt  also  in  Gaspare, 
was  alive  in  him. 

But  to-day  it  was  alive  to  do  service  for  Vere,  not  for 
Hermione.  He  knew  that,  and  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  natural.  For  Hermione  was  a  woman,  with  ex- 
perience of  life;  but  Vere  was  only  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  world.  She  needed  protection  more  than  Her- 
mione. 

Some  time  ago,  when  he  was  returning  to  Naples  from 
the  island  on  an  evening  of  scirocco,  Artois  had  in  thought 
transferred  certain  hopes  of  his  from  Hermione  to  Vere. 
He  had  said  to  himself  that  he  must  henceforth  hope  for 
Hermione  in  Vere. 

Now  was  he  not  transferring  something  else  from  the 
mother  to  the  child  ? 


CHAPTER   XV 

ARTOIS  had  intended  to  go  that  evening  to  the  island. 
But  he  did  not  fulfil  his  intention.  When  the  sun  began 
to  sink  he  threw  a  light  coat  over  his  arm  and  walked 
down  to  the  harbor  of  Santa  Lucia.  A  boatman  whom 
he  knew  met  him  and  said: 

"Shall  I  take  you  to  the  island,  Signore?" 

Artois  was  there  to  take  a  boat.  He  meant  to  say 
yes.  Yet  when  the  man  spoke  he  answered  no.  The 
fellow  turned  away  and  found  another  customer.  Two 
or  three  minutes  later  Artois  saw  his  boat  drawing  out 
to  sea  in  the  direction  of  Posilipo.  It  was  a  still  even- 
ing, and  very  clear  after  the  storm  of  the  preceding 
night.  Artois  longed  to  be  in  that  travelling  boat, 
longed  to  see  the  night  come  from  the  summit  of  the 
island  with  Hermione  and  Vere.  But  he  resisted  the 
sea,  its  wide  peace,  its  subtle  summons,  called  a  car- 
riage and  drove  to  the  Galleria.  Arrived  there,  he  took 
his  seat  at  a  little  table  outside  the  "Gran  Gaffe,"  or- 
dered a  small  dinner,  and,  while  he  was  eating  it,  watch- 
ed the  people  strolling  up  and  down,  seeking  among  them 
for  a  figure  that  he  knew. 

As  the  hour  drew  near  for  the  music  to  begin,  and  the 
girls  dressed  in  white  came  out  one  by  one  to  the  plat- 
form that,  surrounded  by  a  white  railing  edged  with  red 
velvet,  is  built  out  beyond  the  caffe  to  face  the  crowd, 
the  number  of  promenaders  increased,  and  many  stood 
still  waiting  for  the  first  note,  and  debating  the  looks 
of  the  players.  Others  thronged  around  Artois,  taking 
possession  of  the  many  little  tables,  and  calling  for  ices, 

208 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

lemon  -  water,  syrups,  and  liqueurs.  Priests,  soldiers, 
sailors,  students,  actors — who  assemble  in  the  Galleria 
to  seek  engagements — newsboys,  and  youths  whose 
faces  suggested  that  they  were  "ruffiani,"  mingled  with 
foreigners  who  had  come  from  the  hotels  and  from  the 
ships  in  the  harbor,  and  whose  demeanor  was  partly 
curious  and  partly  suspicious,  as  of  one  who  longs  to 
probe  the  psychology  of  a  thief  while  safely  -guarding 
his  pockets.  The  buzz  of  voices,  the  tramp  of  feet, 
gained  a  peculiar  and  vivid  sonorousness  from  the  high 
and  vaulted  roof;  and  in  the  warm  air,  under  the  large 
and  winking  electric  lights,  the  perpetually  moving  fig- 
ures looked  strangely  capricious,  hungry,  determined, 
furtive,  ardent,  and  intent.  On  their  little  stands  the 
electric  fans  whirred  as  they  slowly  revolved,  casting  an 
artificial  breeze  upon  pallid  faces,  and  around  the  cen- 
tral dome  the  angels  with  gilded  wings  lifted  their  right 
arms  as  if  pointing  the  unconscious  multitude  the  diffi- 
cult way  to  heaven. 

A  priest  sat  down  with  two  companions  at  the  table 
next  to  Artois.  He  had  a  red  cord  round  his  shaggy 
black  hat.  His  face  was  like  a  parroquet's,  with  small, 
beady  eyes  full  of  an  unintellectual  sharpness.  His 
plump  body  suggested  this  world,  and  his  whole  de- 
meanor, the  movements  of  his  dimpled,  dirty  hands, 
and  of  his  protruding  lips,  the  attitude  of  his  extended 
legs,  the  pose  of  his  coarse  shoulders,  seemed  hostile  to 
things  mystical.  He  munched  an  ice,  and  swallowed 
hasty  draughts  of  iced  water,  talking  the  while  with  a 
sort  of  gluttonous  vivacity.  Artois  looked  at  him  and 
heard,  with  his  imagination,  the  sound  of  the  bell  at  the 
Elevation,  and  saw  the  bowed  heads  of  the  crouching 
worshippers.  The  irony  of  life,  that  is  the  deepest  mys- 
tery of  life,  came  upon  him  like  the  wave  of  some  Polar 
sea.  He  looked  up  at  the  gilded  angels,  then  dropped 
his  eyes  and  saw  what  he  had  come  to  see. 

209 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Slowly  threading  her  way  through  the  increasing 
throng,  came  the  old  woman  whom  he  had  watched  so 
often  and  by  whom  he  had  been  watched.  To-night  she 
had  on  her  summer  dress,  a  respectable,  rather  shiny 
gown  of  grayish  mauve,  a  bonnet  edged  with  white  rib- 
bon, a  pair  of  white  thread  gloves.  She  carried  her  lit- 
tle bag  and  a  small  Japanese  fan.  Walking  in  a  strange, 
flat-footed  way  that  was  peculiar  to  her,  and  glancing 
narrowly  about  her,  yet  keeping  her  head  almost  still, 
she  advanced  towards  the  band -stand.  As  she  came 
opposite  to  Artois  the  orchestra  of  women  struck  up 
the  "Valse  Noir,"  and  the  old  woman  stood  still,  im- 
peded by  the  now  dense  crowd  of  listeners.  While  the 
demurely  sinister  music  ran  its  course,  she  remained  ab- 
solutely immobile.  Artois  watched  her  with  a  keen  in- 
terest. 

It  had  come  into  his  mind  that  she  was  the  aunt  of 
Peppina,  the  disfigured  girl,  who  perhaps  to-night  was 
sleeping  in  the  Casa  del  Mare  with  Vere. 

Presently,  attracted,  no  doubt,  by  his  gaze,  the  old 
woman  looked  across  at  Artois  and  met  his  eyes.  In- 
stantly a  sour  and  malignant  expression  came  into  her 
long,  pale  face,  and  she  drew  up  a  corner  of  her  upper 
lip,  as  a  dog  sometimes  does,  showing  a  tooth  that  was 
like  a  menace. 

She  was  secretly  cursing  Artois. 

He  knew  why.  Encouraged  by  his  former  observa- 
tion of  her,  she  had  scented  a  client  in  him  and  had  been 
deceived,  and  this  deception  had  bred  within  her  an 
acrid  hatred  of  him.  To-night  he  would  chase  away 
tkat  hatred.  For  he  meant  to  speak  to  her.  The  old 
woman  looked  away  from  him,  holding  her  head  down 
as  if  in  cold  disdain.  Artois  read  easily  what  was  pass- 
ing in  her  mind.  She  believed  him  wicked,  but  nervous 
in  his  wickedness,  desirous  of  her  services  but  afraid  to 
invite  them.  And  she  held  him  in  the  uttermost  con- 

210 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

tempt.  Well,  to-night  he  would  undeceive  her  on  one 
point  at  least.  He  kept  his  eyes  upon  her  so  firmly  that 
she  looked  at  him  again.  This  time  he  made  a  sign  of 
recognition,  of  understanding.  She  stared  as  if  in  sus- 
picious amazement.  He  glanced  towards  the  dome, 
then  at  her  once  more.  At  this  moment  the  waiter 
came  up.  Artois  paid  his  bill  slowly  and  ostentatiously. 
As  he  counted  out  the  money  upon  the  little  tray  he 
looked  up  once,  and  saw  the  eyes  in  the  long,  pale  face 
of  the  venerable  temptress  glitter  while  they  watched. 
The  music  ceased,  the  crowd  before  the  platform  broke 
up,  and  began  quickly  to  melt  away.  Only  the  woman 
waited,  holding  her  little  bag  and  her  cheap  Japanese 
fan. 

Artois  drew  out  a  cigar,  lit  it  slowly,  then  got  up,  and 
began  to  move  out  among  the  tables. 

The  priest  looked  after  him,  spoke  rapidly  to  his  com- 
panions, and  burst  into  a  throaty  laugh  which  was  loud- 
ly echoed. 

"Maria  Fortunata  is  in  luck  to-night!"  said  some  one. 

Then  the  band  began  again,  the  waiter  came  with 
more  ices,  and  the  tall,  long-bearded  forestiere  was  for- 
gotten. 

Without  glancing  at  the  woman,  Artois  strolled  slow- 
ly on.  Many  people  looked  at  him,  but  none  spoke  to 
him,  for  he  was  known  now,  as  each  stranger  who  stays 
long  in  Naples  is  known,  summed  up,  labelled,  and 
either  ignored  or  pestered.  The  touts  and  the  ruffiani 
were  aware  that  it  was  no  use  to  pester  the  Frenchman, 
and  even  the  decrepit  and  indescribably  seedy  old  men 
who  hover  before  the  huge  plate-glass  windows  of  the 
photograph  shops,  or  linger  near  the  entrance  to  the 
cinematograph,  never  peeped  at  him  out  of  the  corners 
of  their  bloodshot  eyes  or  whispered  a  word  of  the  white 
slaves  in  his  ear. 

When  he  was  beneath  the  dome,  and  could  see  the 

211 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

light  gleaming  upon  the  wings  of  the  pointing  angels, 
Artois  seemed  to  be  aware  of  an  individual  step  among 
the  many  feet  behind  him,  a  step  soft,  furtive,  and  ob- 
stinate, that  followed  him  like  a  fate's.  He  glanced  up 
at  the  angels.  A  melancholy  and  half-bitter  smile  came 
to  his  lips.  Then  he  turned  to  the  right  and  made  his 
way  still  slowly  towards  the  Via  Roma,  always  crowded 
from  the  early  afternoon  until  late  into  the  night.  As 
he  went,  as  he  pushed  through  the  mob  of  standing  men 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Galleria,  and  crossed  the  street  to 
the  far  side,  from  which  innumerable  narrow  and  evil- 
looking  alleys  stretch  away  into  the  darkness  up  the 
hill,  the  influence  of  the  following  old  woman  increased 
upon  him,  casting  upon  him  like  a  mist  her  hateful 
eagerness.  He  desired  to  be  rid  of  it,  and,  quickening 
his  walk,  he  turned  into  the  first  alley  he  came  to,  walked 
a  little  way  up  it,  until  he  was  in  comparative  solitude 
and  obscurity,  then  stopped  and  abruptly  turned. 

The  shiny,  grayish  mauve  gown  and  the  white- 
trimmed  bonnet  were  close  to  him.  Between  them  he 
faintly  perceived  a  widely  smiling  face,  and  from  this 
face  broke  at  once  a  sickly  torrent  of  speech,  half  Nea- 
politan dialect,  half  bastard  French. 

"Silenzio!"  Artois  said,  sternly. 

The  old  harridan  stopped  in  surprise,  showing  her 
tooth. 

"What  has  become  of  Peppina?" 

"Maria  Santissima!"  she  ejaculated,  moving  back  a 
step  in  the  darkness. 

She  paused.     Then  she  said: 

"You  know  Peppina!" 

She  came  forward  again,  quite  up  to  him,  and  peered 
into  his  face,  seeking  there  for  an  ugly  truth  which  till 
now  had  been  hidden  from  her. 

"What  had  you  to  do  with  Peppina?" 

"Nothing.     Tell  me  about  her,  and — " 

212 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  put  his  hand  to  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
showed  her  the  edge  of  a  little  case  containing  paper 
notes.  The  woman  misunderstood  him.  He  knew  that 
by  her  face,  which  for  the  moment  was  as  a  battle-field 
on  which  lust  fought  with  a  desperate  anger  of  disap- 
pointment. Then  cunning  came  to  stop  the  battle. 

"You  have  heard  of  Peppina,  Signore?  You  have 
never  seen  her?" 

Artois  played  with  her  for  a  moment. 

"Never." 

Her  smile  widened.  She  put  up  her  thin  hands  to  her 
hair,  her  bonnet,  coquettishly. 

"There  is  not  a  girl  in  Naples  as  beautiful  as  Peppina. 
Mother  of — " 

But  the  game  was  too  loathsome  with  such  a  player. 

"Beautiful!     Macche!" 

He  laughed,  made  a  gesture  of  pulling  out  a  knife 
and  smashing  his  face  with  it. 

"Beautiful!     Per  Dio!" 

The  coquetry,  the  cunning,  dropped  out  of  the  long, 
pale  face. 

"The  Signore  knows?" 

"Ma  si!     All  Naples  knows." 

The  old  woman's  face  became  terrible.  Her  two 
hands  shot  up,  dropped,  shot  up  again,  imprecating, 
cursing  the  world,  the  sky,  the  whole  scheme  of  the 
universe,  it  seemed.  She  chattered  like  an  ape.  Artois 
soothed  her  with  a  ten-lire  note/ 

That  night,  when  he  went  back  to  the  hotel,  he  had 
heard  the  aunt's  version  of  Peppina,  and  knew — that 
which  really  he  had  known  before — that  Hermione  had 
taken  her  to  live  on  the  island. 

Hermione!  What  was  she?  An  original,  clever  and 
blind,  great-hearted  and  unwise.  An  enthusiast,  one 
created  to  be  carried  away. 

Never  would  she  grow  really  old,  never  surely  would 

213 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  primal  fires  within  her  die  down  into  the  gray  ashes 
that  litter  so  many  of  the  hearths  by  which  age  sits,  a 
bleak,  uncomely  shadow. 

And  Peppina  was  on  the  island,  a  girl  from  the  stews 
of  Naples;  not  wicked,  perhaps,  rather  wronged,  in- 
jured by  life — nevertheless,  the  niece  of  that  horror  of 
the  Galleria. 

He  thought  of  Vere  and  shuddered. 

Next  day  towards  four  o'clock  the  Marchesino  strolled 
into  Artois'  room,  with  a  peculiarly  impudent  look  of 
knowledge  upon  his  face. 

"Buon  giorno,  Caro  Emilio,"  he  said.  "Are  you 
busy?" 

"Not  specially." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  for  a  stroll  in  the  Villa? 
Will  you  come  to  see  the  gathering  together  of  the 
geese?" 

"Che  Diavolo!     What's  that?" 

"This  summer  the  Marchesa  Pontini  has  organized  a 
sort  of  club,  which  meets  in  the  Villa  every  day  except 
Sundays.  Three  days  the  meeting  is  in  the  morning, 
three  days  in  the  afternoon.  The  silliest  people  of  the 
aristocracy  belong  to  this  club,  and  the  Marchesa  is  the 
mother  goose.  Ecco!  Will  you  come,  or — or  have  you 
some  appointment  ?"  He  smiled  in  his  friend's  face. 

Artois  wondered,  but  could  not  divine,  what  was  at  the 
back  of  his  mind. 

"No,  I  had  thought  of  going  on  the  sea." 

"Or  to  the  Toledo,  perhaps?" 

The  Marchesino  laughed  happily. 

"The  Toledo?     Why  should  I  go  there?" 

"Non  lo  so.  Put  on  your  chapeau  and  come.  II  fait 
tres  beau  cet  apres-midi." 

Doro  was  very  proud  of  his  French,  which  made 
Artois  secretly  shiver,  and  generally  spoke  it  when  he 
was  in  specially  good  spirits,  or  was  feeling  unusually 

214 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

mischievous.  As  they  walked  along  the  sea -front  a 
moment  later,  he  continued  in  Italian: 

"You  were  not  at  the  island  yesterday,  Emilio?" 

"No.     Were  you?" 

"I  naturally  called  to  know  how  the  ladies  were  after 
that  terrible  storm.  What  else  could  I  do?" 

"And  how  were  they?" 

"The  Signora  was  in  Naples,  and  of  course  the  Sign- 
orina  could  not  have  received  me  alone.  But  the  saints 
were  with  me,  Emilio.  I  met  her  on  the  sea,  quite  by  her- 
self, on  the  sea  of  the  Saint's  Pool.  She  was  lying  back 
in  a  little  boat,  with  no  hat  on,  her  hands  behind  her 
head — so,  and  her  eyes — her  beautiful  eyes,  Emilio,  were 
full  of  dreams,  of  dreams  of  the  sea." 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?"  said  Artois,  rather  sharply. 

"Cosa?" 

"How  do  you  know  the  Signorina  was  dreaming  of 
the  sea?  Did  she — did  she  tell  you?" 

"No,  but  I  am  sure.  We  walked  together  from  the 
boats.  I  told  her  she  was  an  enchantress  of  the  sea,  the 
spirit  of  the  wave — I  told  her!" 

He  spread  out  his  hands,  rejoicing  in  the  remembrance 
of  his  graceful  compliments. 

"The  Signorina  was  delighted,  but  she  could  not  stay 
long.  She  had  a  slight  headache  and  was  a  little  tired 
after  the  storm.  But  she  would  have  liked  to  ask  me 
to  the  house.  She  was  longing  to.  I  could  see  that." 

He  seized  his  mustache. 

"She  turned  her  head  away,  trying  to  conceal  from 
me  her  desire,  but — " 

He   laughed. 

"Le  donne!     Le  donne!"  he  happily  exclaimed. 

Artois  found  himself  wondering  why,  until  Doro  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  dwellers  on  the  island,  he 
had  never  wished  to  smack  his  smooth,  complacent 
cheeks. 

215 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

They  turned  from  the  sea  into  the  broad  walk  of  the 
Villa,  and  walked  towards  the  kiosk.  Near  it,  on  the 
small,  green  chairs,  were  some  ladies  swathed  in  gigantic 
floating- veils,  talking  to  two  or  three  very  smart  young 
men  in  white  suits  and  straw  hats,  who  leaned  for- 
ward eying  them  steadily  with  a  determined  yet  rather 
vacuous  boldness  that  did  not  disconcert  them.  One 
of  the  ladies,  dressed  in  black-and-white  check,  was  im- 
mensely stout.  She  seemed  to  lead  the  conversation, 
which  was  carried  on  with  extreme  vivacity  in  very 
loud  and  not  melodious  voices. 

"Ecco  the  gathering  of  the  geese!"  said  the  Mar- 
chesino,  touching  Artois  on  the  arm.  "And  that" — he 
pointed  to  the  stout  lady,  who  at  this  moment  tossed 
her  head  till  her  veil  swung  loose  like  a  sail  suddenly 
deserted  by  the  wind — "is  the  goose  -  mother.  Buona 
sera,  Marchesa!  Buona  sera  —  molto  piacere.  Carlo, 
buona  sera — a  rivederci,  Contessa!  A  questa  sera." 

He  showed  his  splendid  teeth  in  a  fixed  but  winning 
smile,  and,  hat  in  hand,  went  by,  walking  from  his  hips. 
Then,  replacing  his  hat  on  his  head,  he  added  to  his 
friend: 

"The  Marchesa  is  always  hoping  that  the  Duchessa 
d'Aosta  will  come  one  day,  if  only  for  a  moment,  to 
smile  upon  the  geese.  But — well,  the  Duchessa  prefers 
to  climb  to  the  fourth  story  to  see  the  poor.  She  has 
a  heart.  Let  us  sit  here,  Emilio." 

They  sat  down  under  the  trees,  and  the  Marchesino 
locked  at  his  pointed  boots  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
pushing  forward  his  under  lip  until  his  blond  mustache 
touched  the  jaunty  tip  of  his  nose.  Then  he  began  to 
laugh,  still  looking  before  him. 

"Emilio!     Emilio!" 

He  shook  his  head  repeatedly. 

"Emilio  mio!  And  that  you  should  be  asking  me  to 
show  you  Naples!  It  is  too  good!  C'est  parfait!" 

216 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  Marchesino  turned  towards  Artois. 

"And  Maria  Fortunata!  Santa  Maria  of  the  Toledo, 
the  white-haired  protectress  of  the  strangers!  Emilio — • 
you  might  have  come  to  me!  But  you  do  not  trust  me. 
Ecco!  You  do  not — 

Artois  understood. 

"You  saw  me  last  night?" 

"Ma  si!  All  Naples  saw  you.  Do  you  not  know 
that  the  Galleria  is  full — but  full — of  eyes?" 

"Va  bene!     But  you  don't  understand." 

"Emilio!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  lifted  his  hands,  his  eye- 
brows. His  whole  being  seemed  as  if  it  were  about  to 
mount  ironically  towards  heaven. 

"You  don't  understand.     I  repeat  it." 

Artois  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  a  sound  in  his 
voice  which  caused  his  frivolous  companion  to  stare  at 
him  with  an  inquiry  that  was,  for  a  moment,  almost 
sulky. 

"You  forget,  Doro,  how  old  I  am." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"You  forget — " 

Artois  was  about  to  allude  to  his  real  self,  to  point 
out  the  improbability  of  a  man  so  mental,  so  known, 
so  travelled  as  he  was,  falling  like  a  school-boy  publicly 
into  a  sordid  adventure.  But  he  stopped,  realizing  the 
uselessness  of  such  an  explanation.  And  he  could  not 
tell  the  Marchesino  the  truth  of  his  shadowy  colloquy 
in  a  by-street  with  the  old  creature  from  behind  the 
shutter. 

"You  have  made  a  mistake  about  me,"  he  said. 
"But  it  is  of  no  consequence.  Look!  There  is  another 
goose  coming." 

He  pointed  with  his  cane  in  the  direction  of  the 
chatterers  near  the  kiosk. 

"It  is  papa!     It  is  papa!" 

217 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Pardon!     I  did  not  recognize — 

The  Marchesino  got  up. 

"Let  us  go  there.  The  Marchesa  with  papa — it  is 
better  than  the  Compagnia  Scarpetta!  I  will  present 
you." 

But  Artois  was  in  no  mood  for  a  cataract  of  nothing- 
ness. 

"Not  now,"  he  said.     "I  have — " 

The  Marchesino  shot  a  cruel  glance  of  impudent  com- 
prehension at  him,  and  touched  his  left  hand  in  token 
of  farewell. 

"I  know!  I  know!  The  quickest  horse  to  the  Toledo. 
A-ah!  A-ah!  May  the  writer's  saint  go  with  you! 
Addio,  mio  caro!" 

There  was  a  hint  of  real  malice  in  his  voice.  He 
cocked  his  hat  and  strutted  away  towards  the  veils 
and  the  piercing  voices.  Artois  stared  after  him  for  a 
moment,  then  walked  across  the  garden  to  the  sea,  and 
leaned  against  the  low  wall  looking  towards  Capri.  He 
was  vexed  at  this  little  episode — unreasonably  vexed. 
In  his  friend  Doro  he  now  discerned  a  possible  ene- 
my. An  Italian  who  has  trusted  does  not  easily  for- 
give if  he  is  not  trusted  in  return.  Artois  was  con- 
scious of  a  dawning  hostility  in  the  Marchesino.  No 
doubt  he  could  check  it.  Doro  was  essentially  good- 
tempered  and  light-hearted.  He  could  check  it  by  an 
exhibition  of  frankness.  But  this  frankness  was  im- 
possible to  him,  and  as  it  was  impossible  he  must  allow 
Doro  to  suspect  him  of  sordid  infamies.  He  knew,  of 
course,  the  Neapolitan's  habitual  disbelief  in  masculine 
virtue,  and  did  not  mind  it.  Then  why  should  he  mind 
Doro's  laughing  thought  of  himself  as  one  of  the  elderly 
crew  who  cling  to  forbidden  pleasures  ?  Why  should  he 
feel  sore,  angry,  almost  insulted? 

Vere  rose  before  him,  as  one  who  came  softly  to  bring 
him  the  answer  to  his  questionings.  And  he  knew  that 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

his  vexation  arose  from  the  secret  apprehension  of  a 
future  in  which  he  would  desire  to  stand  between  her 
and  the  Marchesino  with  clean  hands,  and  tell  Doro 
certain  truths  which  are  universal,  not  national.  Such 
truths  would  come  ill  from  one  whom  the  lectured  held 
unclean. 

As  he  walked  home  to  the  hotel  his  vexation  grew. 

When  he  was  once  more  in  his  room  he  remembered 
his  remark  to  Hermione,  "We  shall  have  many  quiet, 
happy  evenings  together  this  summer,  I  hope,"  and  her 
strange  and  doubtful  reply.  And  because  he  felt  himself 
invaded  by  her  doubts  he  resolved  to  set  out  for  the 
island.  If  he  took  a  boat  at  once  he  could  be  there 
between  six  and  seven  o'clock. 

And  perhaps  he  would  see  the  new  occupant  of  the 
Casa  del  Mare.     Perhaps  he  would  see  Peppina. 
15 


CHAPTER   XVI 

"I  HAVE  come,  you  see,"  said  Artois  that  evening, 
as  he  entered  Hermione's  room,  "to  have  the  first  of 
our  quiet,  happy  evenings,  about  which  you  were  so 
doubtful." 

"Was  I?" 

She  smiled  at  him  from  her  seat  between  the  big 
windows. 

Outside  the  door  he  had,  almost  with  a  sudden  pas- 
sion, dismissed  the  vague  doubts  and  apprehensions 
that  beset  him.  He  came  with  a  definite  brightness,  a 
strong  intimacy,  holding  out  his  hands,  intent  really  on 
forcing  Fate  to  weave  her  web  in  accordance  with  his 
will. 

"We  women  are  full  of  little  fears,  even  the  bravest 
of  us.  Chase  mine  away,  Emile." 

He  sat  down. 

"What  are  they?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Formless — or  almost.  But  perhaps  that  adds  to  the 
uneasiness  they  inspire.  To  put  them  into  words  would 
be  impossible." 

"Away  with  them!" 

"Willingly." 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  asking  him  questions,  to  be 
not  quite  satisfied,  not  quite  sure  of  something. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  it  in  you  to  be  angry  with  me." 

"Make  your  confession." 

220 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  have  Peppina  here." 

"Of  course." 

"You  knew—?" 

"I  have  known  you  as  an  impulsive  for — how  many 
years?  Why  should  you  change?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
continued: 

"Sometimes  you  remind  me — in  spots,  as  it  were — of 
George  Sand." 

She  laughed,  not  quite  without  bitterness. 

"In  spots,  indeed!" 

"She  described  herself  once  in  a  book  as  having  'a 
great  facility '  for  illusions,  a  blind  benevolence  of  judg- 
ment, a  tenderness  of  heart  that  was  inexhaustible — " 

"Oh!" 

"Wait!  From  these  qualities,  she  said,  came  hurry, 
mistakes  innumerable,  heroic  devotion  to  objects  that  were 
worthless,  much  weakness,  tremendous  disappointments." 

Hermione  said  nothing,  but  sat  still  looking  grave. 

"Well?  don't  you  recognize  something  of  yourself  in 
the  catalogue,  my  friend?" 

"Have  I  a  great  facility  for  illusions?  Am  I  capable 
of  heroic  devotion  to  worthless  objects?" 

Suddenly  Artois  remembered  all  he  knew  and  she  did 
not  know. 

"At  least  you  act  hastily  often,"  he  said,  evasively. 
"And  I  think  you  are  often  so  concentrated  upon  the 
person  who  stands,  perhaps  suffering,  immediately  be- 
fore you,  that  you  forget  who  is  on  the  right,  who  is  on 
the  left." 

"Emile,  I  asked  your  advice  yesterday,  and  you 
would  not  give  it  me." 

"A  fair  hit!"  he  said.  "And  so  Peppina  is  here. 
How  did  the  servants  receive  her?" 

"I  think  they  were  rather  surprised.  Of  course  they 
don't  know  the  truth." 

221 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"They  will  within — shall  we  say  twenty-four  hours, 
or  less?" 

"How  can  they?     Peppina  won't  tell  them." 

"You  are  sure?  And  when  Gaspare  goes  into  Naples 
to  'fare  la  spesa'?" 

"I  told  Gaspare  last  night." 

"That  was  wisdom.  You  understand  your  watch- 
dog's character." 

"You  grant  that  Gaspare  is  not  an  instance  of  a 
worthless  object  made  the  recipient  of  my  heroic  de- 
votion?" 

"Give  him  all  you  like,"  said  Artois,  with  warmth. 
"You  will  never  repent  of  that.  Was  he  angry  when 
you  told  him?" 

"I  think  he  was." 

"Why?" 

"I  heard  him  saying  'Testa  della  Madonna!'  as  he 
was  leaving  me." 

Artois  could  not  help  smiling. 

"And  Vere?"  he  said,  looking  directly  at  her. 

"I  have  not  told  Vere  anything  about  Peppina's 
past,"  Hermione  said,  rather  hastily.  "I  do  not  in- 
tend to.  I  explained  that  Peppina  had  had  a  sad  life 
and  had  been  attacked  by  a  man  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  and  for  whom  she  didn't  care." 

"And  Vere  was  all  sympathy  and  pity?"  said  Artois, 
gently. 

"She  didn't  seem  much  interested,  I  thought.  She 
scarcely  seemed  to  be  listening.  I  don't  believe  she  has 
seen  Peppina  yet.  When  we  arrived  she  was  shut  up 
in  her  room." 

As  she  spoke  she  was  looking  at  him,  and  she  saw  a 
slight  change  come  over  his  face. 

"Do  you  think — ?"  she  began,  and  paused.  "I 
wonder  if  she  was  reading,"  she  added,  slowly,  after  a 
moment. 

222 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

mother  would  not  have  allowed  them  to  sit  together  on 
the  terrace  without  a  chaperon.  But  the  English  mother 
had  deliberately  remained  within  and  had  kept  Caro 
Emilio  with  her.  What  could  such  conduct  mean,  if  not 
that  the  Signorina  was  in  love  with  him,  the  Marchesino, 
and  that  the  Signorina's  mamma  was  perfectly  willing  for 
him  to  make  love  to  her  child  ? 

And  yet — and  yet  ? 

There  was  something  in  Vere  that  puzzled  him,  that 
had  kept  him  strangely  discreet  upon  the  terrace,  that 
made  him  silent  and  thoughtful  now.  Had  she  been  a 
typical  English  girl  he  might  have  discerned  something 
of  the  truth  of  her.  But  Vere  was  lively,  daring,  pas- 
sionate, and  not  without  some  traces  of  half -humorous 
and  wholly  innocent  coquetry.  She  was  not  at  all  what 
the  Neapolitan  calls  "a  lump  of  snow  to  cool  the  wine." 
In  her  innocence  there  was  fire.  That  was  what  confused 
the  Marchesino. 

He  stared  at  the  cabin  door  by  which  Vere  had  gone 
out,  and  his  round  eyes  became  almost  pathetic  for  a 
moment.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  this 
exit  was  a  second  ruse,  like  Vere's  departure  to  the  ter- 
race, and  he  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  out  and  brave 
the  storm.  But  Hermione  stopped  him  decisively. 

"No,  Marchese,"  she  said,  "really  I  cannot  let  you 
expose  yourself  to  the  rain  and  the  sea  in  that  airy 
costume.  I  might  be  your  mother." 

"Signora,  but  you — " 

"No,  compliments  apart,  I  really  might  be,  and  you 
must  let  me  use  a  mother's  authority.  Till  we  reach 
the  island  stay  here  and  make  the  best  of  me." 

Hermione  had  touched  the  right  note.  Metaphorically, 
the  Marchesino  cast  himself  at  her  feet.  With  a  gallant 
assumption  of  undivided  adoration  he  burst  into  con- 
versation, and,  though  his  eyes  often  wandered  to  the 
blurred  glass,  against  which  pressed  and  swayed  a  black- 

191 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ness  that  told  of  those  outside,  his  sense  of  his  duty  as  a 
host  gradually  prevailed,  and  he  and  Hermione  were 
soon  talking  quite  cheerfully  together. 

Vere  had  forgotten  him  as  utterly  as  she  had  forgotten 
Naples,  swallowed  up  by  the  night.  Just  then  only  the 
sea,  the  night,  Gaspare,  and  the  two  sailors  who  were 
managing  the  launch  were  real  to  her — besides  herself. 
For  a  moment  even  her  mother  had  ceased  to  exist  in  her 
consciousness.  As  the  sea  swept  the  deck  of  the  little 
craft  it  swept  her  mind  clear  to  make  more  room  for 
itself. 

She  stood  by  Gaspare,  touching  him,  and  clinging  on, 
as  he  did,  to  the  rail.  Impenetrably  black  was  the  night. 
Only  here  and  there,  at  distances  she  could  not  begin  to 
judge  of,  shone  vaguely  lights  that  seemed  to  dance  and 
fade  and  reappear  like  marsh  lights  in  a  world  of  mist. 
Were  they  on  se'a  or  land?  She  could  not  tell  and  did 
not  ask.  The  sailors  doubtless  knew,  but  she  respected 
them  and  their  duty  too  much  to  speak  to  them,  though 
she  had  given  them  a  smile  as  she  came  out  to  join  them, 
and  had  received  two  admiring  salutes  in  reply.  Gas- 
pare, too,  had  smiled  at  her  with  a  pleasure  which  swiftly 
conquered  the  faint  reproach  in  his  eloquent  eyes.  He 
liked  his  Padroncina's  courage,  liked  the  sailors  of  the 
Signer  Marchese  to  see  it.  He  was  soaked  to  the  skin, 
but  he,  too,  was  enjoying  the  adventure,  a  rare  one  on 
this  summer  sea,  which  had  slept  through  so  many  shin- 
ing days  and  starry  nights  like  a  "bambino  in  dolce 
letargo." 

To-night  it  was  awake,  and  woke  up  others,  Vere's 
nature  and  his. 

"Where  is  the  island,  Gaspare?"  cried  Vere  through 
the  wind  to  him. 

"Chi  lo  sa,  Signorina." 

He  waved  one  hand  to  the  blackness  before  them. 

"It  must  be  there." 

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A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

She  strained  her  eyes,  then  looked  away  towards  where 
the  land  must  be.  At  a  long  distance  across  the  leaping 
foam  she  saw  one  light.  As  the  boat  rose  and  sank  on 
the  crests  and  into  the  hollows  of  the  waves  the  light 
shone  and  faded,  shone  and  faded.  She  guessed  it  to 
be  a  light  at  the  Antico  Giuseppone.  Despite  the  head 
wind  and  the  waves  that  met  them  the  launch  travelled 
bravely,  and  soon  the  light  was  gone.  She  told  herself 
that  it  must  have  been  at  the  Giuseppone,  and  that  now 
they  had  got  beyond  the  point,  and  were  opposite  to  the 
harbor  of  the  Villa  Rosebery.  But  no  lights  greeted 
them  from  the  White  Palazzo  in  the  wood,  or  from  the 
smaller  white  house  low  down  beside  tr.-^  sea.  And 
again  she  looked  straight  forward. 

Now  she  was  intent  on  San  Francesco.  She  was  think- 
ing of  him,  of  the  Pool,  of  the  island.  And  she  thrilled 
with  joy  at  the  thought  of  the  wonderful  wildness  of  her 
home.  As  they  drew  on  towards  it  the  waves  were 
bigger,  the  wind  was  stronger.  Even  on  calm  nights 
there  was  always  a  breeze  when  one  had  passed  the 
Giuseppone  going  towards  Ischia,  and  beyond  the  island 
there  was  sometimes  quite  a  lively  sea.  What  would  it 
be  to-night  ?  Her  heart  cried  out  for  a  crescendo.  With- 
in her,  at  that  moment,  was  a  desire  like  the  motorist's 
for  speed.  More!  more!  More  wind!  more  sea!  more 
uproar  from  the  elements ! 

And  San  Francesco  all  alone  in  this  terrific  blackness! 
Had  he  not  been  dashed  from  his  pedestal  by  the  waves  ? 
Was  the  light  at  his  feet  still  burning? 

"II  Santo!"  she  said  to  Gaspare. 

He  bent  his  head  till  it  was  close  to  her  lips. 

"II  Santo!     What  has  become  of  him,  Gaspare?" 

"He  will  be  there,  Signorina." 

So  Gaspare,  too,  held  to  the  belief  of  the  seamen  of  the 
Bay.  He  had  confidence  in  the  obedience  of  the  sea, 
this  sea  that  roared  around  them  like  a  tyrant.  Sud- 

193 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

denly  she  had  no  doubt.  It  would  be  so.  The  saint 
would  be  untouched.  The  light  would  still  be  burning. 
She  looked  for  it.  And  now  she  remembered  her  mother. 
She  must  tell  her  mother  directly  she  saw  it.  But  all  was 
blackness  still.  N 

And  the  launch  seemed  weary,  like  a  live  thing  whose 
strength  is  ebbing,  who  strains  and  pants  and  struggles 
gallantly,  not  losing  heart  but  losing  physical  force. 
Surely  it  was  going  slower.  She  laid  one  hand  upon  the 
cabin  roof  as  if  in  encouragement.  Her  heart  was  with 
the  launch,  as  the  seaman's  is  with  his  boat  when  it  re- 
sists, surely  for  his  sake  consciously,  the  assault  of  the 
great  sea. 

"Coraggio!" 

She  was  murmuring  the  word.  Gaspare  looked  at  her. 
And  the  word  was  in  his  eyes  as  it  should  be  in  all  eyes 
that  look  at  youth.  And  the  launch  strove  on. 

' '  Coraggio !     Coraggio ! ' ' 

The  spray  was  in  her  face.  Her  hair  was  wet  with  the 
rain.  Her  French  frock — that  was  probably  ruined! 
But  she  knew  that  she  had  never  felt  more  happy.  And 
now — it  was  like  a  miracle!  Suddenly  out  of  the  dark- 
ness a  second  darkness  shaped  itself,  a  darkness  that  she 
knew — the  island.  And  almost  simultaneously  there 
shone  out  a  little,  steady  light. 

"Ecco  il  Santo!" 

"Ecco!     Ecco!" 

Vere  called  out:  "Madre!     Madre!" 

She  bent  down. 

"Madre!     The  light  is  burning." 

The  sailors,  too,  bent  down,  right  down  to  the  water. 
They  caught  at  it  with  their  hands,  Gaspare,  too.  Vere 
understood,  and,  kneeling  on  the  gunwale,  firmly  in 
Gaspare's  grasp,  she  joined  in  their  action. 

She  sprinkled  the  boat  with  the  acqua  benedetta  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

194 


CHAPTER   XIV 

WHEN,  the  next  day,  Artois  sat  down  at  his  table  to 
work  he  found  it  impossible  to  concentrate  his  mind. 
The  irritation  of  the  previous  evening  had  passed  away. 
He  attributed  it  to  the  physical  effect  made  upon  him 
by  the  disturbed  atmosphere.  Now  the  sun  shone,  the 
sky  was  clear,  the  sea  calm.  He  had  just  come  out  of  an 
ice-cold  bath,  had  taken  his  coffee,  and  smoked  one 
cigarette.  A  quiet  morning  lay  before  him.  Quiet? 

He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window. 

On  the  wooden  roof  of  the  bath  establishment  op- 
posite rows  of  towels,  hung  out  to  dry,  were  moving 
listlessly  to  and  fro  in  the  soft  breeze.  Capri  w>as  almost 
hidden  by  haze  in  the  distance.  In  the  sea,  just  below 
him,  several  heads  of  swimmers  moved.  One  boy  was 
"making  death."  He  floated  on  his  back  with  his  eyes 
closed  and  his  arms  extended.  His  body,  giving  itself 
without  resistance  to  every  movement  of  the  water, 
looked  corpselike  and  ghostly. 

A  companion  shouted  to  him.  He  threw  up  his  arms 
suddenly  and  shouted  a  reply  in  the  broadest  Neapolitan, 
then  began  to  swim  vigorously  towards  the  slimy  rocks  at 
the  base  of  Castel  dell'  Ovo.  Upon  the  wooden  terrace 
of  the  baths  among  green  plants  in  pots  stood  three 
women,  probably  friends  of  the  proprietor.  For  though 
it  was  already  hot,  the  regular  bathing  season  of  Naples 
had  not  yet  begun  and  the  baths  were  not  completed. 
Only  in  July,  after  the  festa  of  the  Madonna  del  Carmine, 
do  the  Neapolitans  give  themselves  heart  and  soul  to  the 

195 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

sea.  Artois  knew  this,  and  wondered  idly  -what  the 
women  were  doing  on  the  terrace.  One  had  a  dog.  It 
sat  in  the  sun  and  began  to  cough.  A  long  wagon  on 
two  wheels  went  by,  drawn  by  two  mules  and  a  thin 
horse  harnessed  abreast.  It  was  full  of  white  stone. 
The  driver  had  bought  some  green  stuff  and  flung  it 
down  upon  the  white.  He  wore  a  handkerchief  on  his 
head.  His  chest  was  bare.  As  he  passed  beneath  the 
window  he  sang  a  loud  song  that  sounded  Eastern,  such 
a  song  as  the  Spanish  wagoners  sing  in  Algeria,  as  they 
set  out  by  night  on  their  long  journeys  towards  the  desert. 
Upon  a  tiny  platform  of  wood,  fastened  to  slanting 
stakes  which  met  together  beneath  it  in  a  tripod,  a  stout 
man  in  shirt  and  trousers,  with  black  whiskers,  was  sitting 
on  a  chair  fishing  with  a  rod  and  line.  A  boy  sat  beside 
him  dangling  his  legs  over  the  water.  At  a  little  distance 
a  large  fishing-smack,  with  sails  set  to  catch  the  breeze 
farther  out  in  the  Bay,  was  being  laboriously  rowed 
towards  the  open  sea  by  half -naked  men,  who  shouted 
as  they  toiled  at  the  immense  oars. 

Artois  wondered  where  they  were  going.  Their  skins 
were  a  rich  orange  color.  From  a  distance  in  the  sun- 
light they  looked  like  men  of  gold.  Their  cries  and  their 
fierce  movements  suggested  some  fantastic  quest  to  lands 
of  mysterious  tumult. 

Artois  wished  that  Vere  could  see  them. 

What  were  the  inhabitants  of  the  island  doing  ? 

To-day  his  mind  was  beyond  his  governance,  and 
roamed  like  a  vagrant  on  a  long,  white  road.  Every- 
thing that  he  saw  below  him  in  the  calm  radiance  of  the 
morning  pushed  it  from  thought  to  thought.  Yet  none 
of  these  thoughts  were  valuable.  None  seemed  fully 
formed.  They  resembled  henids,  things  seen  so  far  away 
that  one  cannot  tell  what  they  are,  but  is  only  aware  that 
they  exist  and  can  attract  attention. 

He  came  out  upon  his  balcony.  As  he  did  so  he  looked 

196 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

down  into  the  road,  and  saw  a  hired  carriage  drive  up, 
with  Hermione  in  it. 

She  glanced  up  and  saw  him. 

"May  I  come  in  for  a  minute?" 

He  nodded,  smiling,  and  went  out  to  meet  her,  glad 
of  this  interruption. 

They  met  at  the  door  of  the  lift.  As  Hermione  stepped 
out  she  cast  a  rather  anxious  glance  at  her  friend,  a 
glance  that  seemed  to  say  that  she  was  not  quite  certain 
of  her  welcome.  Artois'  eyes  reassured  her. 

"I  feel  guilt)',"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"Coming  at  such  an  hour.     Are  you  working?" 

"No.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  am  incapable  of  work. 
I  feel  both  lazy  and  restless,  an  unfruitful  combination. 
Perhaps  something  in  me  secretly  knew  that  you  were 
coming." 

"Then  it  is  my  fault." 

They  came  into  his  sitting-room.  It  had  four  win- 
dows, tw3  facing  the  sea,  two  looking  on  the  road,  and 
the  terraces  and  garden  of  the  Hotel  Hassler.  The 
room  scarcely  suggested  its  present  occupant.  It  con- 
tained a  light-yellow  carpet  with  pink  flowers  strewn  over 
it,  red-and-gold  chairs,  mirrors,  a  white  marble  mantel- 
piece, a  gray-and-pink  sofa  with  a  pink  cushion.  Only 
the  large  writing-table,  covered  with  manuscripts,  letters, 
and  photographs  in  frames,  said  something  individual 
to  the  visitor.  Hermione  and  Vere  were  among  the 
photographs. 

Hermione  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

"I  have  come  to  consult  you  about  something, 
Emile." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  really  meant  to  ask  you  last  night,  but  somehow 
I  couldn't." 

"Why?" 

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A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  don't  know.  We — I — there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of 
barrier  between  us — didn't  there?" 

' '  I  was  in  a  bad  humor.  I  was  tired  after  the  journey, 
and  perhaps  the  weather  upset  me." 

"It's  all  right — one  can't  be  always —  Well,  this  is 
what  I  wanted  to  say.  I  alluded  to  it  yesterday  when 
I  told  you  about  my  visit  to  Naples  with  Madame 
Alliani.  Do  you  remember?" 

"You  hinted  you  had  seen,  or  heard  of,  some  trag- 
edy." 

"Yes.  I  believe  it  is  a  quite  ordinary  one  in  Naples. 
We  went  to  visit  a  consumptive  woman  in  one  of  those 
narrow  streets  going  uphill  to  the  left  of  the  Via  Roma, 
and  while  there  by  chance  I  heard  of  it.  In  the  same 
house  as  the  sick  woman  there  is  a  girl.  Not  many  days 
ago  she  was  beautiful!" 

"Yes ?     What  has  happened  to  her ?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  Her  name  is  Peppina.  She  is  only 
nineteen,  but  she  has  been  one  of  those  who  are  not  given 
a  chance.  She  was  left  an  orphan  very  young  and  went 
to  live  with  an  aunt.  This  aunt  is  a  horrible  old  woman. 
I  believe — they  say  she  goes  to  the  Galleria — " 

Hermione  paused. 

"I  understand,"  said  Artois. 

"She  is  greedy,  wicked,  merciless.  We  had  the  story 
from  the  woman  we  were  visiting,  a  neighbor.  This 
aunt  forced  Peppina  into  sin.  Her  beauty,  which  must 
have  been  extraordinary,  naturally  attracted  attention 
and  turned  people's  heads.  It  seems  to  have  driven  one 
man  nearly  mad.  He  is  a  fisherman,  not  young,  and  a 
married  man.  It  seems  that  he  is  notoriously  violent 
and  jealous,  and  thoroughly  unscrupulous.  He  is  a 
member  of  the  Camorra,  too.  He  pestered  Peppina  with 
his  attentions,  coming  day  after  day  from  Mergellina, 
where  he  lives  with  his  wife.  One  night  he  entered  the 
house  and  made  a  scene.  Peppina  refused  finally  to 

198 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

receive  his  advances,  and  told  him  she  hated  him  before 
all  the  neighbors.     He  took  out  a  razor  and — " 

Hermione  stopped. 

"I  understand,"  said  Artois.     "He  disfigured  her." 

"Dreadfully." 

"It  is  often  done  here.  Sometimes  a  youth  does  it 
simply  to  show  that  a  girl  is  his  property.  But  what  is  it 
you  wish  to  do  for  Peppina?  I  see  you  have  a  plan  in 
your  head." 

"I  want  to  have  her  on  the  island." 

"In  what  capacity?" 

"As  a  servant.  She  can  work.  She  is  not  a  bad  girl. 
She  has  only — well,  Emile,  the  aunt  only  succeeded  in 
forcing  one  lover  on  her.  That  is  the  truth.  He  was 
rich  and  bribed  the  aunt.  But  of  course  the  neighbors 
all  know,  and — ^the  population  here  has  its  virtues,  but  it 
is  not  exactly  a  delicate  population." 

"Per  Bacco!" 

"And  now  that  the  poor  girl  is  disfigured  the  aunt  is 
going  to  turn  her  out-of-doors.  She  says  Peppina  must 
go  and  earn  money  for  herself.  Of  course  nobody  will 
take  her.  -I  want  to.  I  have  seen  her,  talked  to  her. 
She  would  be  so  thankful.  She  is  in  despair.  Think 
of  it!  Nineteen,  and  all  her  beauty  gone!  Isn't  it 
devilish?" 

"And  the  man?" 

"Oh,  they  say  he'll  get  scarcely  anything,  if  anything. 
Two  or  three  months,  perhaps.  He  is  'protected.'  It 
makes  my  blood  boil." 

Artois  was  silent,  waiting  for  her  to  say  more,  to  ask 
questions. 

"The  only  thing  is — Vere,  Emile,"  she  said. 

"Vere?" 

"Yes.  You  know  how  friendly  she  is  with  the  ser- 
vants. I  like  her  to  be.  But  of  course  till  now  they 
have  been  all  right — so  far  as  I  know." 

199 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"You  do  well  to  add  that  proviso." 

"  Peppina  would  not  wait  on  us.  She  would  be  in  the 
kitchen.  Am  I  justified  in  taking  her?  Of  course  I 
could  help  her  with  money.  If  I  had  not  seen  her,  talked 
to  her,  that  is  what  I  should  have  done,  no  doubt.  But 
she  wants — she  wants  everything,  peace,  a  decent  home, 
pure  air.  I  feel  she  wants  the  island?" 

"And  the  other  servants?" 

"They  need  only  know  she  was  attacked.  They  need 
not  know  her  past  history.  But  all  that  does  not  matter. 
It  is  only  the  question  of  Vere  that  troubles  me." 

"You  mean  that  you  are  not  decided  whether  you 
ought  to  bring  into  the  house  with  Vere  a  girl  who  is 
not  as  Vere  is?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  want  me  to  advise  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  can't  do  that,  Hermione." 

She  looked  at  him  almost  as  if  she  were  startled. 

"Why  not?     I  always  rely — " 

"No,  no.     This  is  not  a  man's  business,  my  business." 

He  spoke  with  an  odd  brusqueness,  and  there  were 
traces  of  agitation  in  his  face.  Hermione  did  not  at  all 
understand  what  feeling  was  prompting  him,  but  again, 
as  on  the  previous  evening,  she  felt  as  if  there  were 
a  barrier  between  them  —  very  slight,  perhaps,  very 
shadowy,  but  definite  nevertheless.  There  was  no  longer 
complete  frankness  in  their  relations.  At  moments  her 
friend  seemed  to  be  subtly  dominated  by  some  secret 
irritation,  or  anxiety,  which  she  did  not  comprehend. 
She  had  been  aware  of  it  yesterday.  She  was  aware  of  it 
now.  After  his  last  exclamation  she  said  nothing. 

"You  are  going  to  this  girl  now?"  he  asked. 

"I  meant  to.     Yes,  I  shall  go." 

She  sat  still  for  a  minute,  looking  down  at  the  pink- 
and-yellow  carpet. 

200 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"And  what  will  you  do?" 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  think  I  shall  take  her  to  the  island.  I  am  almost 
sure  I  shall.  Emile,  I  don't  believe  in  cowardice,  and  I 
sometimes  think  I  am  inclined  to  be  a  coward  about 
Vere.  She  is  growing  up.  She  will  be  seventeen  this 
year,  very  soon.  There  are  girls  who  marry  at  sixteen, 
even  English  girls." 

"That  is  true." 

She  could  gather  nothing  from  his  tone;  and  now  his 
face  was  perfectly  calm. 

"My  instinct  is  to  keep  Vere  just  as  she  is,  to  preserve 
the  loveliness  of  childhood  in  her  as  long  as  possible,  to 
keep  away  from  her  all  knowledge  of  sin,  sorrow,  the 
things  that  distract  and  torture  the  world.  But  I 
mustn't  be  selfish  about  Vere.  I  mustn't  keep  her 
wrapped  in  cotton  wool.  That  is  unwholesome.  And, 
after  all,  Vere  must  have  her  life  apart  from  me.  Last 
night  I  realized  that  strongly." 

"Last  night  ?" 

"Yes,  from  the  way  in  which  she  treated  the  Marchese, 
and  later  from  something  else.  Last  night  Vere  showed 
two  sides  of  a  woman's  nature — the  capacity  to  hold  her 
own,  what  is  vulgarly  called  'to  keep  her  distance,'  and 
the  capacity  to  be  motherly." 

"Was  Vere  motherly  to  the  Marchesino,  then?"  asked 
Artois,  not  without  irony. 

"No— to  Ruffo." 

"That  boy  ?     But  where  was  he  last  night  ?" 

"When  we  got  back  to  the  island,  and  the  launch  had 
gone  off,  Vere  and  I  stood  for  a  minute  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps  to  listen  to  the  roaring  of  the  sea.  Vere  loves  the 
sea." 

"I  know  that." 

As  he  spoke  he  thought  of  something  that  Hermione 
did  not  know. 

201 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"The  pool  was  protected,  and  under  the  lee  of  the 
island  it  was  comparatively  calm.  But  the  rain  was 
falling  in  torrents.  There  was  one  fishing-boat  in  the 
pool,  close  to  where  we  were,  and  as  we  were  standing 
and  listening  Vere  said,  suddenly,  'Madre,  that's  Ruffo's 
boat!'  I  asked  her  how  she  knew  —  because  he  has 
changed  into  another  boat  lately — she  had  told  me  that. 
'  I  saw  his  head,'  she  answered.  '  He's  there  and  he's  not 
asleep.  Poor  boy,  in  all  this  rain!'  Ruffo  has  been  ill 
with  fever,  as  I  told  you,  and  when  Vere  said  that  I  re- 
membered it  at  once." 

"Had  you  told  Vere  yet?"  interposed  Artois. 

"No.  But  I  did  then.  Emile,  she  showed  an  agita- 
tion that — well,  it  was  almost  strange,  I  think.  She 
begged  me  to  make  him  come  into  the  house  and  spend 
the  night  there,  safe  from  the  wind  and  the  rain." 

"And  you  did,  of  course?" 

"Yes.  He  was  looking  very  pale  and  shaky.  The 
men  let  him  come.  They  were  nice  and  sympathetic. 
I  think  they  are  fond  of  the  boy." 

"Ruffo  seems  to  know  how  to  attract  people  to  him." 

"Yes." 

"And  so  Vere  played  the  mother  to  Ruffo  ?" 

"Yes.  I  never  saw  that  side  of  her  before.  She  was 
a  woman  then.  Eventually  Ruffo  slept  with  Gaspare." 

"And  how  did  Gaspare  accept  the  situation?" 

"Better  than  I  should  have  expected.  I  think  he 
likes  Ruffo  personally,  though  he  is  inclined  to  be  sus- 
picious and  jealous  of  any  strangers  who  come  into  our 
lives.  But  I  haven't  had  time  to  talk  to  him  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Is  Ruffo  still  in  the  house?" 

"Oh  no.  He  went  off  in  the  boat.  They  came  for 
him  about  eight." 

"Ah!" 

Artois  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  But  now 

202 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

he  saw  nothing,  although  the  three  women  were  still 
talking  and  gesticulating  on  the  terrace  of  the  bath- 
house, more  fishing-boats  were  being  towed  or  rowed 
out  into  the  Bay,  carts  were  passing  by,  and  people  were 
strolling  in  the  sun. 

"You  say  that  Vere  showed  agitation  last  night?"  he 
said,  turning  round  after  a  moment. 

"About  Ruffo's  illness?  It  really  almost  amounted 
to  that.  But  Vere  was  certainly  excited.  Didn't  you 
notice  it?" 

"I  think  she  was." 

"Emile,"  Hermione  said,  after  an  instant  of  hesitation, 
"you  remember  my  saying  to  you  the  other  day  that 
Vere  was  not  a  stranger  to  me?" 

"Yes,  quite  well." 

"You  said  nothing — I  don't  think  you  agreed.  Well, 
since  that  day — only  since  then— I  have  sometimes  felt 
that  there  is  much  in  Vere  that  I  do  not  understand, 
much  that  is  hidden  from  me.  Has  she  changed  lately?" 

"She  is  at  an  age  when  development  seems  sudden, 
and  is  often  striking,  even  startling." 

"I  don't  know  why,  but — but  I  dread  something," 
Hermione  said.  "I  feel  as  if — no,  I  don't  know  what  I 
feel.  But  if  Vere  should  ever  drift  away  from  me  I  don't 
know  how  I  could  bear  it.  A  boy — one  expects  him  to 
go  out  into  the  world.  But  a  girl!  I  want  to  keep 
Vere.  I  must  keep  Vere.  If  anything  else  were  to  be 
taken  from  me  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  it." 

"Vere  loves  you.     Be  sure  of  that." 

"Yes." 

Hermione  got  up. 

"Well,  you  won't  give  me  your  advice?" 

"No,  Hermione." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"You  must  treat  Vere  as  you  think  best,  order  her 
life  as  you  think  right.  In  some  things  you  do  wisely 
14  203 


to  consult  me.  But  in  this  you  must  rely  on  yourself. 
Let  your  heart  teach  you.  Do  not  ask  questions  of  my 
head." 

"Your  head!"  she  exclaimed. 

There  was  a  trace  of  disappointment,  even  of  surprise, 
in  her  voice.  She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  were  going 
to  say  more,  but  again  she  was  disconcerted  by  some- 
thing in  his  look,  his  attitude. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Emile." 

"I  will  come  with  you  to  the  lift." 

He  went  with  her  and  touched  the  electric  bell.  As 
they  waited  for  a  moment  he  added: 

"I  should  like  to  have  an  evening  quietly  on  the 
island." 

"Come  to-night,  or  whenever  you  like.  Don't  fix  a 
time.  Come  when  the  inclination  whispers — 'I  want 
to  be  with  friends."1 

He  pressed  her  hand. 

"Shall  I  see  Peppina?" 

"Chilosa?" 

"And  Ruffo?" 

She  laughed. 

"The  Marchesino,  too,  perhaps." 

"No,"  said  Artois,  emphatically.  "Disfigured  girls 
and  fisher-boys — as  many  as  you  like,  but  not  the  alta 
aristocrazia  Napoletana." 

"But  I  thought—" 

"I  like  Doro,  but — I  like  him  in  his  place." 

"And  his  place?" 

"Is  not  the  island — when  I  wish  to  be  quiet  there." 

The  lift  descended.  Artois  went  out  once  more 
onto  the  balcony,  and  watched  her  get  into  the  carriage 
and  drive  away  towards  Naples.  She  did  not  look  up 
again. 

"She  has  gone  to  fetch  that  girl  Peppina,"  Artois  said 
to  himself,  "and  I  might  have  prevented  it." 

204 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  knew  very  well  the  reason  why  he  had  not  in- 
terfered. He  had  not  interfered  because  he  had  wished 
too  much  to  interfere.  The  desire  had  been  strong 
enough  to  startle  him,  to  warn  him. 

An  islet!  That  suggests  isolation.  Like  Hermione, 
he  wished  to  isolate  Vere,  to  preserve  her  as  she  was  in 
character.  He  did  not  know  when  the  wish  had  first 
been  consciously  in  his  mind,  but  he  knew  that  since  he 
had  been  consulted  by  Vere,  since  she  had  broken 
through  her  reserve  and  submitted  to  him  her  poems, 
unveiling  for  him  alone  what  was  really  to  her  a  holy 
of  holies,  the  wish  had  enormously  increased.  He  told 
himself  that  Vere  was  unique,  and  that  he  longed  to  keep 
her  unique,  so  that  the  talent  he  discerned  in  her  might 
remain  unaffected.  How  great  her  talent  was  he  did 
not  know.  He  would  not  know,  perhaps,  for  a  very  long 
time.  But  it  was  definite,  it  was  intimate.  It  was 
Vere's  talent,  no  one  else's. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  very  soon  about  Hermi one's 
incapacity  to  produce  work  of  value.  Although  Vere 
was  such  a  child,  so  inexperienced,  so  innocent,  so 
cloistered,  he  knew  at  once  that  he  dared  not  dash  her 
hopes.  It  was  possible  that  she  might  eventually  be- 
come what  her  mother  certainly  could  never  be. 

But  she  must  not  be  interfered  with.  Her  connec- 
tion with  the  sea  must  not  be  severed.  And  people 
were  coming  into  her  life — Ruffo,  the  Marchesino,  and 
now  this  wounded  girl  Peppina. 

Artois  felt  uneasy.  He  wished  Hermione  were  less 
generous-hearted,  less  impulsive.  She  looked  on  him  as 
a  guide,  a  check.  He  knew  that.  But  this  time  he 
would  not  exercise  his  prerogative.  Ruffo  he  did  not 
mind — at  least  he  thought  he  did  not.  The  boy  was  a 
sea  creature.  He  might  even  be  an  inspiring  force  to 
Vere.  Something  Artois  had  read  had  taught  him  that. 
And  Ruffo  interested  him,  attracted  him  too. 

205 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

But  he  hated  Vere's  acquaintance  with  the  Mar- 
chesino.  He  knew  that  the  Marchesino  would  make 
love  to  her.  And  the  knowledge  was  odious  to  him. 
Let  Vere  be  loved  by  the  sea,  but  by  no  man  as 
yet. 

And  this  girl,  Peppina? 

He  thought  of  the  horrors  of  Naples,  of  the  things  that 
happen  "behind  the  shutter,"  of  the  lives  led  by  some 
men  and  women,  some  boys  and  girls  of  the  great  city 
beneath  the  watching  volcano.  He  thought  of  evenings 
he  had  spent  in  the  Galleria.  He  saw  before  him  an  old 
woman  about  whom  he  had  often  wondered.  Always 
at  night,  and  often  in  the  afternoon,  she  walked  in  the 
Galleria.  She  was  invariably  alone.  The  first  time  he 
had  seen  her  he  had  noticed  her  because  she  had  a  slight- 
ly humped  back.  Her  hair  was  snow  white,  and  was 
drawn  away  from  her  long,  pale  face  and  carefully  ar- 
ranged under  a  modest  bonnet.  She  carried  a  small 
umbrella  and  a  tiny  bag.  Glancing  at  her  casually,  he 
had  supposed  her  to  be  a  respectable  widow  of  the  bor- 
ghese  class.  But  then  he  had  seen  her  again  and  again, 
and  by  degrees  he  had  come  to  believe  that  she  was 
something  very  different.  And  then  one  night  in  late 
spring  he  had  seen  her  in  a  new  light  dress  with  white 
thread  gloves.  And  she  had  noticed  him  watching  her, 
and  had  cast  upon  him  a  look  that  was  unmistakable, 
a  look  from  the  world  "behind  the  shutter";  and  he 
had  understood.  Then  she  had  followed  him  persist- 
ently. When  he  sat  before  the  "Gran  caffe"  sipping 
his  coffee  and  listening  to  the  orchestra  of  women  that 
plays  on  the  platform  outside  the  caffe,  she  had  passed 
and  repassed,  always  casting  upon  him  that  glance  of 
sinister  understanding,  of  invitation,  of  dreary  wicked- 
ness that  sought  for,  and  believed  that  it  had  found, 
an  answering  wickedness  in  him. 

Terrible  old  woman!  Peppina's  aunt  might  well  be 

206 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

like  that.  And  Peppina  would  sleep,  perhaps  to-night, 
in  the  Casa  del  Mare,  under  the  same  roof  as  Vere. 

He  resolved  to  go  that  evening  to  the  island,  to  see 
Peppina,  to  see  Vere.  He  wished,  too,  to  have  A  little 
talk  with  Gaspare  about  Ruffo. 

The  watch-dog  instinct,  which  dwelt  also  in  Gaspare, 
was  alive  in  him. 

But  to-day  it  was  alive  to  do  service  for  Vere,  not  for 
Hermione.  He  knew  that,  and  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  natural.  For  Hermione  was  a  woman,  with  ex- 
perience of  life;  but  Vere  was  only  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  world.  She  needed  protection  more  than  Her- 
mione. 

Some  time  ago,  when  he  was  returning  to  Naples  from 
the  island  on  an  evening  of  scirocco,  Artois  had  in  thought 
transferred  certain  hopes  of  his  from  Hermione  to  Vere. 
He  had  said  to  himself  that  he  must  henceforth  hope  for 
Hermione  in  Vere. 

Now  was  he  not  transferring  something  else  from  the 
mother  to  the  child  ? 


CHAPTER   XV 

ARTOIS  had  intended  to  go  that  evening  to  the  island. 
But  he  did  not  fulfil  his  intention.  When  the  sun  began 
to  sink  he  threw  a  light  coat  over  his  arm  and  walked 
down  to  the  harbor  of  Santa  Lucia.  A  boatman  whom 
he  knew  met  him  and  said: 

"Shall  I  take  you  to  the  island,  Signore?" 

Artois  was  there  to  take  a  boat.  He  meant  to  say 
yes.  Yet  when  the  man  spoke  he  answered  no.  The 
fellow  turned  away  and  found  another  customer.  Two 
or  three  minutes  later  Artois  saw  his  boat  drawing  out 
to  sea  in  the  direction  of  Posilipo.  It  was  a  still  even- 
ing, and  very  clear  after  the  storm  of  the  preceding 
night.  Artois  longed  to  be  in  that  travelling  boat, 
longed  to  see  the  night  come  from  the  summit  of  the 
island  with  Hermione  and  Vere.  But  he  resisted  the 
sea,  its  wide  peace,  its  subtle  summons,  called  a  car- 
riage and  drove  to  the  Galleria.  Arrived  there,  he  took 
his  seat  at  a  little  table  outside  the  "Gran  Gaffe,"  or- 
dered a  small  dinner,  and,  while  he  was  eating  it,  watch- 
ed the  people  strolling  up  and  down,  seeking  among  them 
for  a  figure  that  he  knew. 

As  the  hour  drew  near  for  the  music  to  begin,  and  the 
girls  dressed  in  white  came  out  one  by  one  to  the  plat- 
form that,  surrounded  by  a  white  railing  edged  with  red 
velvet,  is  built  out  beyond  the  caffe  to  face  the  crowd, 
the  number  of  promenaders  increased,  and  many  stood 
still  waiting  for  the  first  note,  and  debating  the  looks 
of  the  players.  Others  thronged  around  Artois,  taking 
possession  of  the  many  little  tables,  and  calling  for  ices, 

208 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

lemon  -  water,  syrups,  and  liqueurs.  Priests,  soldiers, 
sailors,  students,  actors — who  assemble  in  the  Galleria 
to  seek  engagements — newsboys,  and  youths  whose 
faces  suggested  that  they  were  "ruffiani,"  mingled  with 
foreigners  who  had  come  from  the  hotels  and  from  the 
ships  in  the  harbor,  and  whose  demeanor  was  partly 
curious  and  partly  suspicious,  as  of  one  who  longs  to 
probe  the  psychology  of  a  thief  while  safely  guarding 
his  pockets.  The  buzz  of  voices,  the  tramp  of  feet, 
gained  a  peculiar  and  vivid  sonorousness  from  the  high 
and  vaulted  roof;  and  in  the  warm  air,  under  the  large 
and  winking  electric  lights,  the  perpetually  moving  fig- 
ures looked  strangely  capricious,  hungry,  determined, 
furtive,  ardent,  and  intent.  On  their  little  stands  the 
electric  fans  whirred  as  they  slowly  revolved,  casting  an 
artificial  breeze  upon  pallid  faces,  and  around  the  cen- 
tral dome  the  angels  with  gilded  wings  lifted  their  right 
arms  as  if  pointing  the  unconscious  multitude  the  diffi- 
cult way  to  heaven. 

A  priest  sat  down  with  two  companions  at  the  table 
next  to  Artois.  He  had  a  red  cord  round  his  shaggy 
black  hat.  His  face  was  like  a  parroquet's,  with  small, 
beady  eyes  full  of  an  unintellectual  sharpness.  His 
plump  body  suggested  this  world,  and  his  whole  de- 
meanor, the  movements  of  his  dimpled,  dirty  hands, 
and  of  his  protruding  lips,  the  attitude  of  his  extended 
legs,  the  pose  of  his  coarse  shoulders,  seemed  hostile  to 
things  mystical.  He  munched  an  ice,  and  swallowed 
hasty  draughts  of  iced  water,  talking  the  while  with  a 
sort  of  gluttonous  vivacity.  Artois  looked  at  him  and 
heard,  with  his  imagination,  the  sound  of  the  bell  at  the 
Elevation,  and  saw  the  bowed  heads  of  the  crouching 
worshippers.  The  irony  of  life,  that  is  the  deepest  mys- 
tery of  life,  came  upon  him  like  the  wave  of  some  Polar 
sea.  He  looked  up  at  the  gilded  angels,  then  dropped 
his  eyes  and  saw  what  he  had  come  to  see. 

209 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Slowly  threading  her  way  through  the  increasing 
throng,  came  the  old  woman  whom  he  had  watched  so 
often  and  by  whom  he  had  been  watched.  To-night  she 
had  on  her*  summer  dress,  a  respectable,  rather  shiny 
gown  of  grayish  mauve,  a  bonnet  edged  with  white  rib- 
bon, a  pair  of  white  thread  gloves.  She  carried  her  lit- 
tle bag  and  a  small  Japanese  fan.  Walking  in  a  strange, 
flat-footed  way  that  was  peculiar  to  her,  and  glancing 
narrowly  about  her,  yet  keeping  her  head  almost  still, 
she  advanced  towards  the  band  -  stand.  As  she  came 
opposite  to  Artois  the  orchestra  of  women  struck  up 
the  "Valse  Noir,"  and  the  old  woman  stood  still,  im- 
peded by  the  now  dense  crowd  of  listeners.  While  the 
demurely  sinister  music  ran  its  course,  she  remained  ab- 
solutely immobile.  Artois  watched  her  with  a  keen  in- 
terest. 

It  had  come  into  his  mind  that  she  was  the  aunt  of 
Peppina,  the  disfigured  girl,  who  perhaps  to-night  was 
sleeping  in  the  Casa  del  Mare  with  Vere. 

Presently,  attracted,  no  doubt,  by  his  gaze,  the  old 
woman  looked  across  at  Artois  and  met  his  eyes.  In- 
stantly a  sour  and  malignant  expression  came  into  her 
long,  pale  face,  and  she  drew  up  a  corner  of  her  upper 
lip,  as  a  dog  sometimes  does,  showing  a  tooth  that  was 
like  a  menace. 

She  was  secretly  cursing  Artois. 

He  knew  why.  Encouraged  by  his  former  observa- 
tion of  her,  she  had  scented  a  client  in  him  and  had  been 
deceived,  and  this  deception  had  bred  within  her  an 
acrid  hatred  of  him.  To-night  he  would  chase  away 
tkat  hatred.  For  he  meant  to  speak  to  her.  The  old 
woman  looked  away  from  him,  holding  her  head  down 
as  if  in  cold  disdain.  Artois  read  easily  what  was  pass- 
ing in  her  mind.  She  believed  him  wicked,  but  nervous 
in  his  wickedness,  desirous  of  her  services  but  afraid  to 
invite  them.  And  she  held  him  in  the  uttermost  con- 

210 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

tempt.  Well,  to-night  he  would  undeceive  her  on-  one 
point  at  least.  He  kept  his  eyes  upon  her  so  firmly  that 
she  looked  at  him  again.  This  time  he  made  a  sign  of 
recognition,  of  understanding.  She  stared  as  if  in  sus- 
picious amazement.  He  glanced  towards  the  dome, 
then  at  her  once  more.  At  this  moment  the  waiter 
came  up.  Artois  paid  his  bill  slowly  and  ostentatiously. 
As  he  counted  out  the  money  upon  the  little  tray  he 
looked  up  once,  and  saw  the  eyes  in  the  long,  pale  face 
of  the  venerable  temptress  glitter  while  they  watched. 
The  music  ceased,  the  crowd  before  the  platform  broke 
up,  and  began  quickly  to  melt  away.  Only  the  woman 
waited,  holding  her  little  bag  and  her  cheap  Japanese 
fan. 

Artois  drew  out  a  cigar,  lit  it  slowly,  then  got  up,  and 
began  to  move  out  among  the  tables. 

The  priest  looked  after  him,  spoke  rapidly  to  his  com- 
panions, and  burst  into  a  throaty  laugh  which  was  loud- 
ly echoed. 

"Maria  Fortunata  is  in  luck  to-night!"  said  some  one. 

Then  the  band  began  again,  the  waiter  came  with 
more  ices,  and  the  tall,  long-bearded  forestiere  was  for- 
gotten. 

Without  glancing  at  the  woman,  Artois  strolled  slow- 
ly on.  Many  people  looked  at  him,  but  none  spoke  to 
him,  for  he  was  known  now,  as  each  stranger  who  stays 
long  in  Naples  is  known,  summed  up,  labelled,  and 
either  ignored  or  pestered.  The  touts  and  the  ruffiani 
were  aware  that  it  was  no  use  to  pester  the  Frenchman, 
and  even  the  decrepit  and  indescribably  seedy  old  men 
who  hover  before  the  huge  plate-glass  windows  of  the 
photograph  shops,  or  linger  near  the  entrance  to  the 
cinematograph,  never  peeped  at  him  out  of  the  corners 
of  their  bloodshot  eyes  or  whispered  a  word  of  the  white 
slaves  in  his  ear. 

When  he  was  beneath  the  dome,  and  could  see  the 

211 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

light  gleaming  upon  the  wings  of  the  pointing  angelss 
Artois  seemed  to  be  aware  of  an  individual  step  among 
the  many  feet  behind  him,  a  step  soft,  furtive,  and  ob- 
stinate, that  followed  him  like  a  fate's.  He  glanced  up 
at  the  angels.  A  melancholy  and  half-bitter  smile  came 
to  his  lips.  Then  he  turned  to  the  right  and  made  his 
way  still  slowly  towards  the  Via  Roma,  always  crowded 
from  the  early  afternoon  until  late  into  the  night.  As 
he  went,  as  he  pushed  through  the  mob  of  standing  men 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Galleria,  and  crossed  the  street  to 
the  far  side,  from  which  innumerable  narrow  and  evil- 
looking  alleys  stretch  away  into  the  darkness  up  the 
hill,  the  influence  of  the  following  old  woman  increased 
upon  him,  casting  upon  him  like  a  mist  her  hateful 
eagerness.  He  desired  to  be  rid  of  it,  and,  quickening 
his  walk,  he  turned  into  the  first  alley  he  came  to,  walked 
a  little  way  up  it,  until  he  was  in  comparative  solitude 
and  obscurity,  then  stopped  and  abruptly  turned. 

The  shiny,  grayish  mauve  gown  and  the  white- 
trimmed  bonnet  were  close  to  him.  Between  them  he 
faintly  perceived  a  widely  smiling  face,  and  from  this 
face  broke  at  once  a  sickly  torrent  of  speech,  half  Nea- 
politan dialect,  half  bastard  French. 

"Silenzio!"  Artois  said,  sternly. 

The  old  harridan  stopped  in  surprise,  showing  her 
tooth. 

"What  has  become  of  Peppina?" 

"Maria  Santissima!"  she  ejaculated,  moving  back  a 
step  in  the  darkness. 

She  paused.     Then  she  said: 

"You  know  Peppina!" 

She  came  forward  again,  quite  up  to  him,  and  peered 
into  his  face,  seeking  there  for  an  ugly  truth  which  till 
now  had  been  hidden  from  her. 

"What  had  you  to  do  with  Peppina?" 

"Nothing.     Tell  me  about  her,  and — " 
212 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  put  his  hand  to  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
showed  her  the  edge  of  a  little  case  containing  paper 
notes.  The  woman  misunderstood  him.  He  knew  that 
by  her  face,  which  for  the  moment  was  as  a  battle-field 
on  which  lust  fought  with  a  desperate  anger  of  disap- 
pointment. Then  cunning  came  to  stop  the  battle. 

"You  have  heard  of  Peppina,  Signore?  You  have 
never  seen  her?" 

Artois  played  with  her  for  a  moment. 

"Never." 

Her  smile  widened.  She  put  up  her  thin  hands  to  her 
hair,  her  bonnet,  coquettishly. 

"There  is  not  a  girl  in  Naples  as  beautiful  as  Peppina. 
Mother  of — " 

But  the  game  was  too  loathsome  with  such  a  player. 

"Beautiful!     Macche!" 

He  laughed,  made  a  gesture  of  pulling  out  a  knife 
and  smashing  his  face  with  it. 

"Beautiful!     Per  Dio!" 

The  coquetry,  the  cunning,  dropped  out  of  the  long, 
pale  face. 

"The  Signore  knows?" 

"Ma  si!     All  Naples  knows." 

The  old  woman's  face  became  terrible.  Her  two 
hands  shot  up,  dropped,  shot  up  again,  imprecating, 
cursing  the  world,  the  sky,  the  whole  scheme  of  the 
universe,  it  seemed.  She  chattered  like  an  ape.  Artois 
soothed  her  with  a  ten-lire  note. 

That  night,  when  he  went  back  to  the  hotel,  he  had 
heard  the  aunt's  version  of  Peppina,  and  knew — that 
which  really  he  had  known  before — that  Hermione  had 
taken  her  to  live  on  the  island. 

Hermione!  What  was  she?  An  original,  clever  and 
blind,  great-hearted  and  unwise.  An  enthusiast,  one 
created  to  be  carried  away. 

Never  would  she  grow  really  old,  never  surely  would 

213 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  primal  fires  within  her  die  down  into  the  gray  ashes 
that  litter  so  many  of  the  hearths  by  which  age  sits,  a 
bleak,  uncomely  shadow. 

And  Peppina  was  on  the  island,  a  girl  from  the  stews 
of  Naples;  not  wicked,  perhaps,  rather  wronged,  in- 
jured by  life — nevertheless,  the  niece  of  that  horror  of 
the  Galleria. 

He  thought  of  Vere  and  shuddered. 

Next  day  towards  four  o'clock  the  Marchesino  strolled 
into  Artois'  room,  with  a  peculiarly  impudent  look  of 
knowledge  upon  his  face. 

"Buon  giorno,  Caro  Emilio,"  he  said.  "Are  you 
busy?" 

"Not  specially." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  for  a  stroll  in  the  Villa? 
Will  you  come  to  see  the  gathering  together  of  the 
geese?" 

"Che  Diavolo!     What's  that?" 

"This  summer  the  Marchesa  Pontini  has  organized  a 
sort  of  club,  which  meets  in  the  Villa  every  day  except 
Sundays.  Three  days  the  meeting  is  in  the  morning, 
three  days  in  the  afternoon.  The  silliest  people  of  the 
aristocracy  belong  to  this  club,  and  the  Marchesa  is  the 
mother  goose.  Ecco!  Will  you  come,  or — or  have  you 
some  appointment?"  He  smiled  in  his  friend's  face. 

Artois  wondered,  but  could  not  divine,  what  was  at  the 
back  of  his  mind. 

"No,  I  had  thought  of  going  on  the  sea." 

"Or  to  the  Toledo,  perhaps?" 

The  Marchesino  laughed  happily. 

"The  Toledo?     Why  should  I  go  there?" 

"Non  lo  so.  Put  on  your  chapeau  and  come.  II  fait 
tres  beau  cet  apres-midi." 

Doro  was  very  proud  of  his  French,  which  made 
Artois  secretly  shiver,  and  generally  spoke  it  when  he 
was  in  specially  good  spirits,  or  was  feeling  unusually 

214 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

mischievous.     As  they  walked   along  the  sea -front  a 
moment  later,  he  continued  in  Italian: 

"You  were  not  at  the  island  yesterday,  Emilio?" 

"No.     Were  you?" 

"I  naturally  called  to  know  how  the  ladies  were  after 
that  terrible  storm.  What  else  could  I  do?" 

''And  how  were  they?" 

"The  Signora  was  in  Naples,  and  of  course  the  Sign- 
orina  could  not  have  received  me  alone.  But  the  saints 
were  with  me,  Emilio.  I  met  her  on  the  sea,  quite  by  her- 
self, on  the  sea  of  the  Saint's  Pool.  She  was  lying  back 
in  a  little  boat,  with  no  hat  on,  her  hands  behind  her 
head — so,  and  her  eyes — her  beautiful  eyes,  Emilio,  were 
full  of  dreams,  of  dreams  of  the  sea." 

"How  do  you  know  that  ?"  said  Artois,  rather  sharply. 

"Cosa?" 

"How  do  you  know  the  Signorina  was  dreaming  of 
the  sea?  Did  she — did  she  tell  you?" 

"No,  but  I  am  sure.  We  walked  together  from  the 
boats.  I  told  her  she  was  an  enchantress  of  the  sea,  the 
spirit  of  the  wave — I  told  her!" 

He  spread  out  his  hands,  rejoicing  in  the  remembrance 
of  his  graceful  compliments. 

"The  Signorina  was  delighted,  but  she  could  not  stay 
long.  She  had  a  slight  headache  and  was  a  little  tired 
after  the  storm.  But  she  would  have  liked  to  ask  me 
to  the  house.  She  was  longing  to.  I  could  see  that." 

He  seized  his  mustache. 

"She  turned  her  head  away,  trying  to  conceal  from 
me  her  desire,  but — " 

He   laughed. 

"Le  donne!     Le  donne!"  he  happily  exclaimed. 

Artois  found  himself  wondering  why,  until  Doro  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  the  dwellers  on  the  island,  he 
had  never  wished  to  smack  his  smooth,  complacent 
cheeks. 

215 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

They  turned  from  the  sea  into  the  broad  walk  of  the 
Villa,  and  walked  towards  the  kiosk.  Near  it,  on  the 
small,  green  chairs,  were  some  ladies  swathed  in  gigantic 
floating- veils,  talking  to  two  or  three  very  smart  young 
men  in  white  suits  and  straw  hats,  who  leaned  for- 
ward eying  them  steadily  with  a  determined  yet  rather 
vacuous  boldness  that  did  not  disconcert  them.  One 
of  the  ladies,  dressed  in  black-and-white  check,  was  im- 
mensely stout.  She  seemed  to  lead  the  conversation, 
which  was  carried  on  with  extreme  vivacity  in  very 
loud  and  not  melodious  voices. 

"Ecco  the  gathering  of  the  geese!"  said  the  Mar- 
chesino,  touching  Artois  on  the  arm.  "And  that" — he 
pointed  to  the  stout  lady,  who  at  this  moment  tossed 
her  head  till  her  veil  swung  loose  like  a  sail  suddenly 
deserted  by  the  wind — "is  the  goose  -  mother.  Buona 
sera,  Marchesa!  Buona  sera  —  molto  piacere.  Carlo, 
buona  sera — a  rivederci,  Contessa!  A  questa  sera." 

He  showed  his  splendid  teeth  in  a  fixed  but  winning 
smile,  and,  hat  in  hand,  went  by,  walking  from  his  hips. 
Then,  replacing  his  hat  on  his  head,  he  added  to  his 
friend: 

"The  Marchesa  is  always  hoping  that  the  Duchessa 
d'Aosta  will  come  one  day,  if  only  for  a  moment,  to 
smile  upon  the  geese.  But — well,  the  Duchessa  prefers 
to  climb  to  the  fourth  story  to  see  the  poor.  She  has 
a  heart.  Let  us  sit  here,  Emilio." 

They  sat  down  under  the  trees,  and  the  Marchesino 
looked  at  his  pointed  boots  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
pushing  forward  his  under  lip  until  his  blond  mustache 
touched  the  jaunty  tip  of  his  nose.  Then  he  began  to 
laugh,  still  looking  before  him. 

"Emilio!     Emilio!" 

He  shook  his  head  repeatedly. 

"Emilio  mio!  And  that  you  should  be  asking  me  to 
show  you  Naples!  It  is  too  good!  C'est  parfait!" 

216 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  Marchesino  turned  towards  Artois. 

"And  Maria  Fortunata!  Santa  Maria  of  the  Toledo, 
the  white-haired  protectress  of  the  strangers!  Emilio — - 
you  might  have  come  to  me!  But  you  do  not  trust  me. 
Ecco!  You  do  not — " 

Artois  understood. 

"You  saw  me  last  night?" 

"Ma  si!  All  Naples  saw  you.  Do  you  not  know 
that  the  Galleria  is  full — but  full — of  eyes?" 

"Va  bene!     But  you  don't  understand." 

"Emilio!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  lifted  his  hands,  his  eye- 
brows. His  whole  being  seemed  as  if  it  were  about  to 
mount  ironically  towards  heaven. 

"You  don't  understand.     I  repeat  it." 

Artois  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  a  sound  in  his 
voice  which  caused  his  frivolous  companion  to  stare  at 
him  with  an  inquiry  that  was,  for  a  moment,  almost 
sulky. 

"You  forget,  Doro,  how  old  I  am." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"You  forget — " 

Artois  was  about  to  allude  to  his  real  self,  to  point 
out  the  improbability  of  a  man  so  mental,  so  known, 
so  travelled  as  he  was,  falling  like  a  school-boy  publicly 
into  a  sordid  adventure.  But  he  stopped,  realizing  the 
uselessness  of  such  an  explanation.  And  he  could  not 
tell  the  Marchesino  the  truth  of  his  shadowy  colloquy 
in  a  by-street  with  the  old  creature  from  behind  the 
shutter. 

"You  have  made  a  mistake  about  me,"  he  said. 
"But  it  is  of  no  consequence.  Look!  There  is  another 
goose  coming." 

He  pointed  with  his  cane  in  the  direction  of  the 
chatterers  near  the  kiosk. 

"It  is  papa!     It  is  papa!" 

217 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Pardon!     I  did  not  recognize — 

The  Marchesino  got  up. 

"Let  us  go  there.  The  Marchesa  with  papa — it  is 
better  than  the  Compagnia  Scarpetta!  I  will  present 
you." 

But  Artois  was  in  no  mood  for  a  cataract  of  nothing- 
ness. 

"Not  now,"  he  said.     "I  have—" 

The  Marchesino  shot  a  cruel  glance  of  impudent  com- 
prehension at  him,  and  touched  his  left  hand  in  token 
of  farewell. 

"I  know!  I  know!  The  quickest  horse  to  the  Toledo. 
A-ah!  A-ah!  May  the  writer's  saint  go  with  you! 
Addio,  mio  caro!" 

There  was  a  hint  of  real  malice  in  his  voice.  He 
cocked  his  hat  and  strutted  away  towards  the  veils 
and  the  piercing  voices.  Artois  stared  after  him  for  a 
moment,  then  walked  across  the  garden  to  the  sea,  and 
leaned  against  the  low  wall  looking  towards  Capri.  He 
was  vexed  at  this  little  episode — unreasonably  vexed. 
In  his  friend  Doro  he  now  discerned  a  possible  ene- 
my. An  Italian  who  has  trusted  does  not  easily  for- 
give if  he  is  not  trusted  in  return.  Artois  was  con- 
scious of  a  dawning  hostility  in  the  Marchesino.  No 
doubt  he  could  check  it.  Doro  was  essentially  good- 
tempered  and  light-hearted.  He  could  check  it  by  an 
exhibition  of  frankness.  But  this  frankness  was  im- 
possible to  him,  and  as  it  was  impossible  he  must  allow 
Doro  to  suspect  him  of  sordid  infamies.  He  knew,  of 
course,  the  Neapolitan's  habitual  disbelief  in  masculine 
virtue,  and  did  not  mind  it.  Then  why  should  he  mind 
Doro's  laughing  thought  of  himself  as  one  of  the  elderly 
crew  who  cling  to  forbidden  pleasures  ?  Why  should  he 
feel  sore,  angry,  almost  insulted? 

Vere  rose  before  him,  as  one  who  came  softly  to  bring 
him  the  answer  to  his  questionings.  And  he  knew  that 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

his  vexation  arose  from  the  secret  apprehension  of  a 
future  in  which  he  would  desire  to  stand  between  her 
and  the  Marchesino  with  clean  hands,  and  tell  Doro 
certain  truths  which  are  universal,  not  national.  Such 
truths  would  come  ill  from  one  whom  the  lectured  held 
unclean. 

As  he  walked  home  to  the  hotel  his  vexation  grew. 

When  he  was  once  more  in  his  room  he  remembered 
his  remark  to  Hermione,  "We  shall  have  many  quiet, 
happy  evenings  together  this  summer,  I  hope,"  and  her 
strange  and  doubtful  reply.  And  because  he  felt  himself 
invaded  by  her  doubts  he  resolved  to  set  out  for  the 
island.  If  he  took  a  boat  at  once  he  could  be  there 
between  six  and  seven  o'clock. 

And  perhaps  he  would  see  the  new  occupant  of  the 
Casa  del  Mare.  Perhaps  he  would  see  Peppina. 

is 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"I  HAVE  come,  you  see,"  said  Artois  that  evening, 
as  he  entered  Hermione's  room,  "to  have  the  first  of 
•  our  quiet,  happy  evenings,  about  which  you  were  so 
doubtful." 

"Was  I?" 

She  smiled  at  him  from  her  seat  between  the  big 
windows. 

Outside  the  door  he  had,  almost  with  a  sudden  pas- 
sion, dismissed  the  vague  doubts  and  apprehensions 
that  beset  him.  He  came  with  a  definite  brightness,  a 
strong  intimacy,  holding  out  his  hands,  intent  really  on 
forcing  Fate  to  weave  her  web  in  accordance  with  his 
will. 

"We  women  are  full  of  little  fears,  even  the  bravest 
of  us.  Chase  mine  away,  Emile." 

He  sat  down. 

"What  are  they?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Formless — or  almost.  But  perhaps  that  adds  to  the 
uneasiness  they  inspire.  To  put  them  into  words  would 
be  impossible." 

"Away  with  them!" 

"Willingly." 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  be  asking  him  questions,  to  be 
not  quite  satisfied,  not  quite  sure  of  something. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  have  it  in  you  to  be  angry  with  me." 

"Make  your  confession." 

220 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  have  Peppina  here." 

"Of  course." 

4 'You  knew—?" 

"I  have  known  you  as  an  impulsive  for — how  many 
years?  Why  should  you  change?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
continued: 

* '  Sometimes  you  remind  me — in  spots,  as  it  were — of 
George  Sand." 

She  laughed,  not  quite  without  bitterness. 

"In  spots,  indeed!" 

"She  described  herself  once  in  a  book  as  having  'a 
great  facility '  for  illusions,  a  blind  benevolence  of  judg- 
ment, a  tenderness  of  heart  that  was  inexhaustible — " 

"Oh!" 

"Wait!  From  these  qualities,  she  said,  came  hurry, 
mistakes  innumerable,  heroic  devotion  to  objects  that  were 
worthless,  much  weakness,  tremendous  disappointments." 

Hermione  said  nothing,  but  sat  still  looking  grave. 

"Well?  don't  you  recognize  something  of  yourself  in 
the  catalogue,  my  friend?" 

"Have  I  a  great  facility  for  illusions?  Am  I  capable 
of  heroic  devotion  to  worthless  objects?" 

Suddenly  Artois  remembered  all  he  knew  and  she  did 
not  know. 

"At  least  you  act  hastily  often,"  he  said,  evasively. 
"And  I  think  you  are  often  so  concentrated  upon  the 
person  who  stands,  perhaps  suffering,  immediately  be- 
fore you,  that  you  forget  who  is  on  the  right,  who  is  on 
the  left." 

"Emile,  I  asked  your  advice  yesterday,  and  you 
would  not  give  it  me." 

"A  fair  hit!"  he  said.  "And  so  Peppina  is  here. 
How  did  the  servants  receive  her?" 

"I  think  they  were  rather  surprised.  Of  course  they 
don't  know  the  truth." 

221 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"They  will  within — shall  we  say  twenty-four  hours, 
or  less?" 

"How  can  they?     Peppina  won't  tell  them." 

"You  are  sure?  And  when  Gaspare  goes  into  Naples 
to  'fare  la  spesa'?" 

"I  told  Gaspare  last  night." 

"That  was  wisdom.  You  understand  your  watch- 
dog's character." 

"You  grant  that  Gaspare  is  not  an  instance  of  a 
worthless  object  made  the  recipient  of  my  heroic  de- 
votion?" 

"Give  him  all  you  like,"  said  Artois,  with  warmth. 
"You  will  never  repent  of  that.  Was  he  angry  when 
you  told  him?" 

"I  think  he  was." 

"Why?" 

"I  heard  him  saying  'Testa  della  Madonna!'  as  he 
was  leaving  me." 

Artois  could  not  help  smiling. 

"And  Vere?"  he  said,  looking  directly  at  her. 

"I  have  not  told  Vere  anything  about  Peppina's 
past,"  Hermione  said,  rather  hastily.  "I  do  not  in- 
tend to.  I  explained  that  Peppina  had  had  a  sad  life 
and  had  been  attacked  by  a  man  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  and  for  whom  she  didn't  care." 

"And  Vere  was  all  sympathy  and  pity?"  said  Artois, 
gently. 

"She  didn't  seem  much  interested,  I  thought.  She 
scarcely  seemed  to  be  listening.  I  don't  believe  she  has 
seen  Peppina  yet.  When  we  arrived  she  was  shut  up 
in  her  room." 

As  she  spoke  she  was  looking  at  him,  and  she  saw  a 
slight  change  come  over  his  face. 

"Do  you  think — ?"  she  began,  and  paused.  "I 
wonder  if  she  was  reading,"  she  added,  slowly,  after  a 
moment. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

was  stretched  under  the  dwarf  trees  of  the  little  gar- 
den, in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  resting  profoundly  after 
the  labors  of  the  morning.  In  their  respective  rooms 
Hermione  and  Vere  were  secluded  behind  shut  doors. 
Hermione  was  lying  down,  but  not  sleeping.  Vere  was 
not  lying  down.  Generally  she  slept  at  this  time  for  an 
hour.  But  to-day,  perhaps  because  of  her  nap  in  fhe 
cave,  she  had  no  desire  for  sleep. 

She  was  thinking  about  her  mother.  And  Hermione 
was  thinking  of  her.  Each  mind  was  working  in  the 
midst  of  its  desert  space,  its  solitude  eternal. 

What  was  growing  up  between  them,  and  why  was  it 
growing  ? 

Hermione  was  beset  by  a  strange  sensation  of  im- 
potence. She  felt  as  if  her  child  were  drifting  from  her. 
Was  it  her  fault,  or  was  it  no  one's,  and  inevitable? 
Had  Vere  been  able  to  divine  certain  feelings  in  her,  the 
mother,  obscure  pains  of  the  soul  that  had  travelled  to 
mind  and  heart?  She  did  not  think  it  possible.  Nor 
had  it  been  possible  for  her  to  kill  those  pains,  although 
she  had  made  her  effort — to  conceal  them.  Long  ago, 
before  she  was  married  to  Maurice,  Emile  had  spoken  to 
them  of  jealousy.  At  the  time  she  had  not  understood 
it.  She  remembered  thinking,  even  saying,  that  she 
could  not  be  jealous. 

But  then  she  had  not  had  a  child. 

Lately  she  had  realized  that  there  were  forces  in  her 
of  which  she  had  not  been  aware.  She  had  realized  her 
passion  for  her  child.  Was  it  strange  that  she  had  not 
always  known  how  deep  and  strong  it  was?  Her 
mutilated  life  was  more  vehemently  centred  upon  Vere 
than  she  had  understood.  Of  Vere  she  could  be  jealous. 
If  Vere  put  any  one  before  her,  trusted  any  one  more 
than  her,  confided  anything  to  another  rather  than  to 
her,  she  could  be  frightfully  jealous. 

Recently  she  had  suspected — she  had  imagined — 

255 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Restlessly  she  moved  on  her  bed.  A  mosquito-cur- 
tain protected  it.  She  was  glad  of  that,  as  if  it  kept  out 
prying  eyes.  For  sometimes  she  was  ashamed  of  the 
vehemence  within  her. 

She  thought  of  her  friend  Emile,  whom  she  had 
dragged  back  from  death. 

He,  too,  had  he  not  drifted  a  little  from  her  in  these 
last  days  ?  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  so.  She  knew 
that  it  was  so.  Women  are  so  sure  of  certain  things, 
more  almost  than  men  are  ever  sure  of  anything.  And 
why  should  Vere  have  drifted,  Emile  have  drifted,  if 
there  were  not  some  link  between  them — some  link  be- 
tween the  child  and  the  middle-aged  man  which  they 
would  not  have  her  know  of? 

Vere  had  told  to  Emile  something  that  she  had  kept, 
that  she  still  kept  from  her  mother.  When  Vere  had 
been  shut  up  in  her  room  she  had  not  been  reading. 
Emile  knew  what  it  was  that  she  did  during  those  long 
hours  when  she  was  alone.  Emile  knew  that,  and  per- 
haps other  things  of  Vere  that  she,  Hermione,  did  not 
know,  was  not  allowed  to  know. 

Hermione,  in  their  long  intimacy,  had  learned  to 
read  Artois  more  clearly,  more  certainly  than  he  realized. 
Although  often  impulsive,  and  seemingly  unconscious 
of  the  thoughts  of  others,  she  could  be  both  sharply 
observant  and  subtle,  especially  with  those  she  loved. 
She  had  noticed  the  difference  between  his  manner  when 
first  they  spoke  of  Vere's  hidden  occupation  and  his  man- 
ner when  last  they  spoke  of  it.  In  the  interval  he  had 
found  out  what  it  was,  and  that  it  was  not  reading.  Of 
that  she  was  positive.  She  was  positive  also  that  he 
did  not  wish  her  to  suspect  this.  Vere  must  have  told 
him  what  it  was. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Hermione  that  at  this  mo- 
ment she  was  free  from  any  common  curiosity  as  to 
what  it  was  that  Vere  did  during  those  many  hours 

256 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

when  she  was  shut  up  in  her  room.  The  thing  that  hurt 
her,  that  seemed  to  humiliate  her,  was  that  Emile  should 
know  what  it  was  and  not  she,  that  Vere  should  have 
told  Emile  and  not  told  her. 

As  she  lay  there  she  cowered  under  the  blow  a  mutual 
silence  can  give,  and  something  woke  up  in  her,  some- 
thing fiery,  something  surely  that  could  act  with  vio- 
lence. It  startled  her,  almost  as  a  stranger  rushing  into 
her  room  would  have  startled  her. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  of  her  child  and  her  loved 
friend  with  a  bitterness  that  was  cruel. 

How  long  had  they  shared  their  secret?  She  won- 
dered, and  began  to  consider  the  recent  days,  searching 
their  hours  for  those  tiny  incidents,  those  small  reticences, 
avoidances,  that  to  women  are  revelations.  When  had 
she  first  noticed  a  slight  change  in  Emile's  manner  to 
her?  When  had  Vere  and  he  first  seemed  a  little  more 
intimate,  a  little  more  confidential  than  before  ?  When 
had  she,  Hermione,  first  felt  a  little  "out  of  it,"  not  per- 
fectly at  ease  with  these  two  dear  denizens  of  her  life  ? 

Her  mind  fastened  at  once  upon  the  day  of  the  storm. 
On  the  night  of  the  storm,  when  she  and  Emile  had  been 
left  alone  in  the  restaurant,  she  had  felt  almost  afraid 
of  him.  But  before  then,  in  the  afternoon  on  the  island, 
there  had  been  something.  They  had  not  been  always 
at  ease.  She  had  been  conscious  of  trying  to  tide  over 
moments  that  were  almost  awkward — once  or  twice, 
only  once  or  twice.  But  that  was  the  day.  Her  wom- 
an's instinct  told  her  so.  That  was  the  day  on  which 
Vere  had  told  Emile  the  secret  she  had  kept  from  her 
mother.  How  excited  Vere  had  been,  almost  feverishly 
excited!  And  Emile  had  been  very  strange.  When  the 
Marchesino  and  Vere  went  out  upon  the  terrace,  how 
restless,  how  irritable  he — 

Suddenly  Hermione  sat  up  in  her  bed.  The  heat, 
the  stillness,  the  white  cage  of  the  mosquito-net,  the 

257 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

silence  had  become  intolerable  to  her.  She  pulled  aside 
the  net.  Yes,  that  was  better.  She  felt  more  free. 
She  would  lie  down  outside  the  net.  But  the  pillow  was 
hot.  She  turned  it,  but  its  pressure  against  her  cheek 
almost  maddened  her,  and  she  got  up,  went  across  the 
room  to  the  wash-hand  stand  and  bathed  her  face  with 
cold  water.  Then  she  put  some  eau  de  Cologne  on  her 
forehead,  opened  a  drawer  and  drew  out  a  fan,  went 
over  to  an  arm-chair  near  the  window  and  sat  down 
in  it. 

What  had  Emile  written  in  the  visitors'  book  at  the 
Scoglio  di  Frisio?  With  a  strange  abruptness,  with  a 
flight  that  was  instinctive  as  that  of  a  homing  pigeon, 
Hermione's  mind  went  to  that  book  as  to  a  book  of 
revelation.  Just  before  he  wrote  he  had  been  feeling 
acutely — something.  She  had  been  aware  of  that  at 
the  time.  He  had  not  wanted  to  write.  And  then  sud- 
denly, almost  violently,  he  had  written  and  had  closed 
the  book. 

She  longed  to  open  that  book  now,  at  once,  to  read 
what  he  had  written.  She  felt  as  if  it  would  tell  her 
very  much.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not 
read  it.  The  book  was  one  that  all  might  see,  was  kept 
to  be  looked  over  by  any  chance  visitor.  She  would  go 
one  day,  one  evening,  to  the  restaurant  and  see  what 
Emile  had  written.  He  would  not  mind.  If  she  had 
asked  him  that  night  of  course  he  would  have  shown 
her  the  words.  But  she  had  not  asked  him.  She  had 
been  almost  afraid  of  things  that  night.  She  remem- 
bered how  the  wind  had  blown  up  the  white  table-cloth, 
her  cold,  momentary  shiver  of  fear,  her  relief  when  she 
had  seen  Gaspare  walking  sturdily  into  the  room. 

And  now,  at  once,  this  thought  of  Gaspare  brought  to 
her  a  sense  of  relief  again,  of  relief  so  great,  so  sharp — 
piercing  down  into  the  very  deep  of  her  nature — that 
by  it  she  was  able  to  measure  something,  her  inward 

258 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

desolation  at  this  moment.  Yes,  she  clung  to  Gaspare, 
because  he  was  loyal,  because  he  loved  her,  because  he 
had  loved  Maurice — but  also  because  she  was  terribly 
alone. 

Because  he  had  loved  Maurice!  Had  there  been  a 
time,  really  a  time,  when  she  had  possessed  one  who  be- 
longed utterly  to  her,  who  lived  only  in  and  for  her? 
Was  that  possible?  To-day,  with  a  fierceness  of  one 
starving,  she  fastened  upon  this  memory,  her  memory, 
hers  only,  shared  by  no  one,  never  shared  by  living  or 
dead.  That  at  least  she  had,  and  that  could  never  be 
taken  from  her.  Even  if  Vere,  her  child,  slipped  from 
her,  if  Emile,  her  friend,  whose  life  she  had  saved,  slipped 
from  her,  the  memory  of  her  Sicilian  was  forever  hers, 
the  memory  of  his  love,  his  joy  in  their  mutual  life,  his 
last  kiss.  Long  ago  she  had  taken  that  kiss  as  a  gift 
made  to  two — to  her  and  to  Vere  unborn.  To-day,  al- 
most savagely,  she  took  it  to  herself,  alone,  herself— 
alone.  Hers  it  was,  hers  only,  no  part  of  it  Vere's. 

That  she  had  —  her  memory,  and  Gaspare's  loyal, 
open-hearted  devotion.  He  knew  what  she  had  suffered. 
He  loved  her  as  he  had  loved  his  dead  Padrone.  He 
would  always  protect  her,  put  her  first  without  hesita- 
tion, conceal  nothing  from  her  that  it  was  her  right — for 
surely  even  the  humblest,  the  least  selfish,  the  least 
grasping,  surely  all  who  love  have  their  rights — that  it 
was  her  right  to  know. 

Her  cheeks  were  burning.  She  felt  like  one  who  had 
been  making  some  physical  exertion. 

Deeply  silent  was  the  house.  Her  room  was  full  of 
shadows,  yet  full  of  the  hidden  presence  of  the  sun. 
There  was  a  glory  outside,  against  which  she  was  pro- 
tected. But  inside,  and  against  assaults  that  were  in- 
glorious, what  protection  had  she  ?  Her  own  personality 
must  protect  her,  her  own  will,  the  determination,  the 
strength,  the  courage  that  belong  to  all  who  are  worth 

259 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

anything  in  the  world.  And  she  called  upon  herself. 
And  it  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  no  voice  that  an- 
swered. 

There  was  a  hideous  moment  of  drama. 

She  sat  there  quietly  in  her  chair  in  the  pretty  room. 
And  she  called  again,  and  she  listened— and  again  there 
was  silence. 

Then  she  was  afraid.  She  had  a  strange  and  horrible 
feeling  that  she  was  deserted  by  herself,  by  that  which, 
at  least,  had  been  herself  and  on  which  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  rely.  And  what  was  left  was  surely  ut- 
terly incapable,  full  of  the  flabby  wickedness  that  seems 
to  dwell  in  weakness.  It  seemed  to  her  that  if  any  one 
who  knew  her  well,  if  Vere,  Emile,  or  even  Gaspare,  had 
come  into  the  room  just  then,  the  intruder  would  have 
paused  on  the  threshold  amazed  to  see  a  stranger  there. 
She  felt  afraid  to  be  seen  and  yet  afraid  to  remain  alone. 
Should  she  do  something  definite,  something  defiant,  to 
prove  to  herself  that  she  had  will  and  could  exercise  it  ? 

She  got  up,  resolved  to  go  to  Vere.  When  she  was 
there,  with  her  child,  she  did  not  know  what  she  was 
going  to  do.  She  had  said  to  Vere,  "  Keep  your  secrets." 
What  if  she  went  now  and  humbled  herself,  explained  to 
the  child  quite  simply  and  frankly  a  mother's  jealousy, 
a  widow's  loneliness,  made  her  realize  what  she  was  in 
a  life  from  which  the  greatest  thing  had  been  ruthlessly 
withdrawn?  Vere  would  understand  surely,  and  all 
would  be  well.  This  shadow  between  them  would  pass 
away.  Hermione  had  her  hand  on  the  door.  But  she 
did  not  open  it.  An  imperious  reserve,  autocrat,  tyrant, 
rose  up  suddenly  within  her.  She  could  never  make 
such  a  confession  to  Vere.  She  could  never  plead  for 
her  child's  confidence — a  confidence  already  given  to 
Emile,  to  a  man.  And  now  for  the  first  time  the  com- 
mon curiosity  to  which  she  had  not  yet  fallen  a  victim 
came  upon  her,  flooded  her.  What  was  Vere's  secret? 

260 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

That  it  was  innocent,  probably  even  childish,  Hermione 
did  not  question  even  for  a  moment.  But  what  was  it  ? 

She  heard  a  light  step  outside  and  drew  back  from  the 
door.  The  step  passed  on  and  died  away  down  the 
paved  staircase.  Vere  had  gone  out  to  the  terrace,  the 
garden,  or  the  sea. 

Hermione  again  moved  for  ward,  then  stopped  abruptly. 
Her  face  was  suddenly  flooded  with  red  as  she  realized 
what  she  had  been  going  to  do,  she  who  had  exclaimed 
that  every  one  has  a  right  to  their  freedom. 

For  an  instant  she  had  meant  to  go  to  Vere's  room, 
to  try  to  find  out  surreptitiously  what  Emile  knew. 

A  moment  later  Vere,  coming  back  swiftly  for  a  pencil 
she  had  forgotten,  heard  the  sharp  grating  of  a  key  in 
the  lock  of  her  mother's  door. 

She  ran  on  lightly,  wondering  why  her  mother  was 
locking  herself  in,  and  against  whom. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

DURING  the  last  days  Artois  had  not  been  to  the  island; 
nor  had  he  seen  the  Marchesino.  A  sudden  passion  for 
work  had  seized  him.  Since  the  night  of  Vere's  meeting 
with  Peppina  his  brain  had  been  in  flood  with  thoughts. 
Life  often  acts  subtly  upon  the  creative  artist,  repres- 
sing or  encouraging  his  instinct  to  bring  forth,  depres- 
sing or  exciting  him  when,  perhaps,  he  expects  it  least. 
The  passing  incidents  of  life  frequently  have  their  hid- 
den, their  unsuspected  part  in  determining  his  activities. 
So  it  was  now  with  Artois.  He  had  given  an  impetus 
to  Vere.  That  was  natural,  to  be  expected,  considering 
his  knowledge  and  his  fame,  his  great  experience  and 
his  understanding  of  men.  But  now  Vere  had  given  an 
impetus  to  him — and  that  was  surely  stranger.  Since 
the  conversation  among  the  shadows  of  the  cave,  after 
the  vision  of  the  moving  men  of  darkness  and  of  fire, 
since  the  sound  of  Peppina  sobbing  in  the  night,  and  the 
sight  of  her  passionate  face  lifted  to  show  its  gashed 
cross  to  Vere,  Artois'  brain  and  heart  had  been  alive  with 
a  fury  of  energy  that  forcibly  summoned  him  to  work, 
that  held  him  working.  He  even  felt  within  him  some- 
thing that  was  like  a  renewal  of  some  part  of  his  vanished 
youth,  and  remembered  old  days  of  student  life,  nights 
in  the  Quartier  Latin,  his  de"but  as  a  writer  for  the  pa- 
pers, the  sensation  of  joy  with  which  he  saw  his  first 
article  in  the  Figaro,  his  dreams  of  fame,  his  hopes  of 
love,  his  baptism  of  sentiment.  How  he  had  worked  in 
those  days  and  nights!  How  he  had  hunted  experience 

262 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

in  the  streets  and  the  by-ways  of  the  great  city!  How 
passionate  and  yet  how  ruthless  he  had  been,  as  artists 
often  are,  governed  not  only  by  their  quick  emotions, 
but  also  by  the  something  watchful  and  dogged  under- 
neath, that  will  not  be  swept  away,  that  is  like  a  de- 
tective hidden  by  a  house  door  to  spy  out  all  the  comers 
in  the  night.  Something,  some  breath  from  the  former 
days,  swept  over  him  again.  In  his  ears  there  sounded 
surely  the  cries  of  Paris,  urging  him  to  the  assault  of 
the  barricades  of  Fame.  And  he  sat  down,  and  he 
worked  with  the  vehement  energy,  with  the  pulsating 
eagerness  of  one  of  "les  jeunes."  Hour  after  hour  he 
worked.  He  took  coffee,  and  wrote  through  the  night. 
He  slept  when  the  dawn  came,  got  up,  and  toiled  again. 

He  shut  out  the  real  world  and  he  forgot  it — until  the 
fit  was  past.  And  then  he  pushed  away  his  paper,  he  laid 
down  his  pen,  he  stretched  himself,  and  he  knew  that  his 
great  effort  had  tired  him  tremendously — tremendously. 

He  looked  at  his  right  hand.  It  was  cramped.  As 
he  held  it  up  he  saw  that  it  was  shaking.  He  had  drunk 
a  great  deal  of  black  coffee  during  those  days,  had  drunk 
it  recklessly  as  in  the  days  of  youth,  when  he  cared  noth- 
ing about  health  because  he  felt  made  of  iron. 

"Pf-f-f!" 

And  so  there  was  Naples  outside,  the  waters  of  the 
Bay  dancing  in  the  sunshine  of  the  bright  summer  after- 
noon ;  people  bathing  and  shouting  to  one  another  from 
the  diving  platforms  and  the  cabins;  people  galloping 
by  in  the  little  carriages  to  eat  oysters  at  Posilipo. 
Lazy,  heedless,  pleasure-loving  wretches!  He  thought 
of  Doro  as  he  looked  at  them. 

He  had  given  strict  orders  that  he  was  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed while  he  was  at  work,  unless  Hermione  came. 
And  he  had  not  once  been  disturbed.  Now  he  rang  the 
bell.  An  Italian  waiter,  with  crooked  eyes  and  a  fair 
beard,  stepped  softly  in. 

263 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"Has  any  one  been  to  see  me  ?  Has  any  one  asked  foi 
me  lately?"  he  said.  "Just  go  down,  will  you,  and  in- 
quire of  the  concierge." 

The  waiter  departed,  and  returned  to  say  that  no  one 
had  been  for  the  Signore. 

"Not  the  Marchese  Isidore  Panacci?" 

"The  concierge  says  that  no  one  has  been,  Signore." 

"Va  bene." 

The  man  went  out. 

So  Doro  had  not  come  even  once!  Perhaps  he  was 
seriously  offended.  At  their  last  parting  in  the  Villa  he 
had  shown  a  certain  irony  that  had  in  it  a  hint  of  bitter- 
ness. Artois  did  not  know  of  the  fisherman's  informa- 
tion, that  Doro  had  guessed  who  was  Vere's  companion 
that  night  upon  the  sea.  He  supposed  that  his  friend 
was  angry  because  he  believed  himself  distrusted.  Well, 
that  could  soon  be  put  right.  He  thought  of  the  Mar- 
chesino  now  with  lightness,  as  the  worker  who  has  just 
made  a  great  and  prolonged  effort  is  inclined  to  think 
of  the  habitual  idler.  Doro  was  like  a  feather  on  the 
warm  wind  of  the  South.  He,  Artois,  was  not  in  the 
mood  just  then  to  bother  about  a  feather.  Still  less  was 
he  inclined  for  companionship.  He  wanted  some  hours 
of  complete  rest  out  in  the  air,  with  gay  and  frivolous 
scenes  before  his  eyes. 

He  wanted  to  look  on,  but  not  to  join  in,  the  merry 
life  that  was  about  him,  and  that  for  so  long  a  time  he 
had  almost  violently  ignored. 

He  resolved  to  take  a  carriage,  drive  slowly  to  Posi- 
lipo,  and  eat  his  dinner  there  in  some  eyrie  above  the 
sea;  watching  the  pageant  that  unfolds  itself  on  the 
evenings  of  summer  about  the  ristoranti  and  the  osterie, 
round  the  stalls  of  the  vendors  of  Frutti  di  Mare,  and 
the  piano-organs,  to  the  accompaniment  of  which  impu- 
dent men  sing  love  songs  to  the  saucy,  dark-eyed  beauties 
posed  upon  balconies,  or  gathered  in  knots  upon  the 

264 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

little  terraces  that  dominate  the  bathing  establishments, 
and  the  distant  traffic  of  the  Bay.  His  brain  longed  for 
rest,  but  it  longed  also  for  the  hum  and  the  stir  of  men. 
His  heart  lusted  for  the  sight  of  pleasure,  and  must  be 
appeased. 

Catching  up  his  hat,  almost  with  the  hasty  eager- 
ness of  a  boy,  he  went  down-stairs.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road  was  a  smart  little  carriage  in  which 
the  coachman  was  asleep,  with  his  legs  cocked  up 
on  the  driver's  seat,  displaying  a  pair  of  startling 
orange-and-black  socks.  By  the  socks  Artois  knew  his 
man. 

"Pasqualino!     Pasqualino!"  he  cried. 

The  coachman  sprang  up,  showing  a  round,  rosy  face, 
and  a  pair  of  shrewd,  rather  small  dark  eyes. 

"Take  me  to  Posilipo." 

"Si,  Signore." 

Pasqualino  cracked  his  whip  vigorously. 

"Ah — ah!  Ah — ah!"  he  cried  to  his  gayly  bedizened 
little  horse,  who  wore  a  long  feather  on  his  head,  flanked 
by  bunches  of  artificial  roses. 

"Not  too  fast,  Pasqualino.  I  am  in  no  hurry.  Keep 
along  by  the  sea." 

The  coachman  let  the  reins  go  loose,  and  instantly  the 
little  horse  went  slowly,  as  if  all  his  spirit  and  agility 
had  suddenly  been  withdrawn  from  him. 

"I  have  not  seen  you  for  several  days,  Signore.  Have 
you  been  ill?" 

Pasqualino  had  turned  quite  round  on  his  box,  and 
was  facing  his  client. 

"No,  I've  been  working." 

"Si?" 

Pasqualino  made  a  grimace,  as  he  nearly  always  did 
when  he  heard  a  rich  Signore  speak  of  working. 

"And  you ?  You  have  been  spending  money  as  usual. 
All  your  clothes  are  new." 

265 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Pasqualino  smiled,  showing  rows  of  splendid  teeth 
under  his  little  twisted-up  mustache. 

"SI,  Signore,  all!  And  I  have  also  new  undercloth- 
ing." 

"Per  Bacco!" 

"Ecco,  Signore!" 

He  pulled  his  trousers  up  to  his  knees,  showing  a  pair 
of  pale-blue  drawers. 

"The  suspenders — they  are  new,  Signore!"  He  drew 
attention  to  the  scarlet  elastics  that  kept  the  orange- 
and-black  socks  in  place.  "My  boots!"  He  put  his 
feet  up  on  the  box  that  Artois  might  see  his  lemon- 
colored  boots,  then  unbuttoned  and  threw  open  his 
waistcoat.  "My  shirt  is  new!  My  cravat  is  new! 
Look  at  the  pin!"  He  flourished  his  plump,  brown, 
and  carefully  washed  hands.  "I  have  a  new  ring."  He 
bent  his  head.  "My  hat  is  new." 

Artois  broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter  that  seemed  to 
do  him  good  after  his  days  of  work. 

"You  young  dandy!  And  where  do  you  get  the 
money?" 

Pasqualino  looked  doleful  and  hung  his  head. 

"Signore,  I  am  in  debt.  But  I  say  to  myself,  'Thank 
the  Madonna,  I  have  a  rich  and  generous  Padrone  who 
wishes  his  coachman  to  be  chic.  When  he  sees  my 
clothes  he  will  be  contented,  and — who  knows  what  he 
will  do  ?'  " 

"Per  Bacco!  And  who  is  this  rich  and  generous 
Signore  ?" 

"Ma!"  Pasqualino  passionately  flung  out  the  ringed 
hand  that  was  not  holding  the  reins — "Ma! — you,  Sign- 
ore." 

"You  young  rascal!  Turn  round  and  attend  to  your 
driving!" 

But  Artois  laughed  again.  The  impudent  boyishness 
of  Pasqualino,  and  his  childish  passion  for  finery,  were 

266 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

refreshing,  and  seemed  to  belong  to  a  young  and  thought- 
less world.  The  sea-breeze  was  soft  as  silk,  the  after- 
noon sunshine  was  delicately  brilliant.  The  Bay  looked 
as  it  often  does  in  summer — like  radiant  liberty  held  in 
happy  arms,  alluring,  full  of  promises.  And  a  physical 
well-being  invaded  Artois  such  as  he  had  not  known 
since  the  day  when  he  had  tea  with  Vere  upon  the  island. 

He  had  been  shut  in.  Now  the  gates  were  thrown 
open,  and  to  what  a  brilliant  world!  He  issued  forth 
into  it  with  almost  joyous  expectation. 

They  went  slowly,  and  presently  drew  near  to  the 
Rotonda.  Artois  leaned  a  little  forward  and  saw  that 
the  fishermen  were  at  work.  They  stood  in  lines  upon 
the  pavement  pulling  at  the  immense  nets  which  were 
still  a  long  way  out  at  sea.  When  the  carriage  reached 
them  Artois  told  Pasqualino  to  draw  up,  and  sat  watch- 
ing the  work  and  the  fierce  energy  of  the  workers.  Half 
naked,  with  arms  and  legs  and  chests  that  gleamed  in 
the  sun  like  copper,  they  toiled,  slanting  backward, 
one  towards  another,  laughing,  shouting,  swearing  with 
a  sort  of  almost  angry  joy.  In  their  eyes  there  was  a 
carelessness  that  was  wild,  in  their  gestures  a  lack  of 
self-consciousness  that  was  savage.  But  they  looked 
like  creatures  who  must  live  forever.  And  to  Artois, 
sedentary  for  so  long,  the  sight  of  them  brought  a  feel- 
ing almost  of  triumph,  but  also  a  sensation  of  envy. 
Their  vigor  made  him  pine  for  movement. 

"Drive  on  slowly,  Pasqualino,"  he  said.  "I  will  fol- 
low you  on  foot,  and  join  you  at  the  hill." 

"Si  Signore." 

He  got  out,  stood  for  a  moment,  then  strolled  on  tow- 
ards the  Mergellina.  As  he  approached  this  part  of  the 
town,  with  its  harbor  and  its  population  of  fisherfolk, 
the  thought  of  Ruffo  came  into  his  mind.  He  remem- 
bered that  Ruffo  lived  here.  Perhaps  he  might  see  the 
boy  this  afternoon. 

is  267 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

On  the  mole  that  serves  as  a  slight  barrier  between 
the  open  sea  and  the  snug  little  harbor  several  boys 
were  fishing.  Others  were  bathing,  leaping  into  the 
water  with  shouts  from  the  rocks.  Beyond,  upon  the 
slope  of  dingy  sand  among  the  drawn -up  boats,  children 
were  playing,  the  girls  generally  separated  from  the 
boys.  Fishermen,  in  woollen  shirts  and  white  linen 
trousers,  sat  smoking  in  the  shadow  of  their  craft,  or 
leaned  muscular  arms  upon  them,  standing  at  ease, 
staring  into  vacancy  or  calling  to  each  other.  On  the 
still  water  there  was  a  perpetual  movement  of  boats; 
and  from  the  distance  came  a  dull  but  continuous  up- 
roar, the  yells  and  the  laughter  of  hundreds  of  bathers 
at  the  Stabilimento  di  Bagni  beyond  the  opposite  limit 
of  the  harbor. 

Artois  enjoyed  the  open-air  gayety,  the  freedom  of 
the  scene;  and  once  again,  as  often  before,  found  him- 
self thinking  that  the  out-door  life,  the  life  loosed  from 
formal  restrictions,  was  the  only  one  really  and  fully 
worth  living.  There  was  a  carelessness,  a  camaraderie 
among  these  people  that  was  of  the  essence  of  humanity. 
Despite  their  frequent  quarrels,  their  intrigues,  their 
betrayals,  their  vendettas,  they  hung  together.  There 
was  a  true  and  vital  companionship  among  them. 

He  passed  on  with  deliberation,  observing  closely, 
yet  half -lazily — for  his  brain  was  slack  and  needed  rest — 
the  different  types  about  him,  musing  on  the  possibilities 
of  their  lives,  smiling  at  the  gambols  of  the  intent  girls, 
and  the  impudent  frolics  of  the  little  boys  who  seemed 
the  very  spawn  of  sand  and  sea  and  sun,  till  he  had  nearly 
passed  the  harbor,  and  was  opposite  to  the  pathway  that 
leads  down  to  the  jetty,  to  the  left  of  which  lie  the 
steam-yachts. 

At  the  entrance  to  this  pathway  there  is  always  a 
knot  of  people  gathered  about  the  shanty  where  the 
seamen  eat  maccaroni  and  strange  messes,  and  the 

268 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

stands  where  shell-fish  are  exposed  for  sale.  On  the  far 
side  of  the  tramway,  beneath  the  tall  houses  which  are 
let  out  in  rooms  and  apartments  for  families,  there  is 
an  open  space,  and  here  in  summer  are  set  out  quantities 
of  strong  tables,  at  which  from  noon  till  late  into  the 
evening  the  people  of  Mergellina,  and  visitors  of  the 
humbler  classes  from  Naples,  sit  in  merry  throngs,  eat- 
ing, smoking,  drinking  coffee,  syrups,  and  red  and  white 
wine. 

Artois  stood  still  for  a  minute  to  watch  them,  to  par- 
take from  a  distance,  and  unknown  to  them,  in  their 
boisterous  gayety.  He  had  lit  a  big  cigar,  and  puffed 
at  it  as  his  eyes  roved  from  group  to  group,  resting  now 
on  a  family  party,  now  on  a  quartet  of  lovers,  now  on 
two  stout  men  obviously  trying  to  drive  a  bargain  with 
vigorous  rhetoric  and  emphatic  gestures,  now  on  an 
elderly  woman  in  a  shawl  spending  an  hour  with  her 
soldier  son  in  placid  silence,  now  on  some  sailors  from 
a  ship  in  the  distant  port  by  the  arsenal  bent  over  a 
game  of  cards,  or  a  party  of  workmen  talking  wages  or 
politics  in  their  shirt  -  sleeves  with  flowers  above  their 
ears. 

What  a  row  they  made,  these  people!  Their  anima- 
tion was  almost  like  the  animation  of  a  nightmare. 
Some  were  ugly,  some  looked  wicked;  others  mischiev- 
ous, sympathetic,  coarse,  artful,  seductive,  boldly  de- 
fiant or  boisterously  excited.  But  however  much  they 
differed,  in  one  quality  they  were  nearly  all  alike.  They 
nearly  all  looked  vivid.  If  they  lacked  anything,  at 
least  it  was  not  life.  Even  their  sorrows  should  be 
energetic. 

As  this  thought  came  into  his  mind  Artois'  eyes 
chanced  to  rest  on  two  people  sitting  a  little  apart  at  a 
table  on  which  stood  a  coffee-cup,  a  thick  glass  half  full 
of  red  wine,  and  a  couple  of  tumblers  of  water.  One 
was  a  woman,  the  other — yes,  the  other  was  RufTo. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

When  Artois  realized  this  he  kept  his  eyes  upon  them. 
He  forgot  his  interest  in  the  crowd. 

At  first  he  could  only  see  Ruffo's  side-face.  But  the 
woman  was  exactly  opposite  to  him. 

She  was  neatly  dressed  in  some  dark  stuff,  and  wore 
a  thin  shawl,  purple  in  color,  over  her  shoulders.  She 
looked  middle-aged.  Had  she  been  an  Englishwoman 
Artois  would  have  guessed  her  to  be  near  fifty.  But 
as  she  was  evidently  a  Southerner  it  was  possible  that 
she  was  very  much  younger.  Her  figure  was  broad  and 
matronly.  Her  face,  once  probably  quite  pretty,  was 
lined,  and  had  the  battered  and  almost  corrugated  look 
that  the  faces  of  Italian  women  of  the  lower  classes 
often  reveal  when  the  years  begin  to  increase  upon  them. 
The  cheek-bones  showed  harshly  in  it,  by  the  long  and 
dark  eyes,  which  were  surrounded  by  little  puckers  of 
yellow  flesh.  But  Artois'  attention  was  held  not  by 
this  woman's  quite  ordinary  appearance,  but  by  her 
manner.  Like  the  people  about  her  she  was  vivacious, 
but  her  vivacity  was  tragic — she  had  not  come  here  to 
be  gay.  Evidently  she  was  in  the  excitement  of  some 
great  grief  or  passion.  She  was  speaking  vehemently 
to  Ruffo,  gesticulating  with  her  dark  hands,  on  which 
there  were  two  or  three  cheap  rings,  catching  at  her 
shawl,  swaying  her  body,  nodding  her  head,  on  which 
the  still  black  hair  was  piled  in  heavy  masses.  And 
her  face  was  distorted  by  an  emotion  that  seemed  of 
sorrow  and  anger  mingled.  In  her  ears,  pretty  and  al- 
most delicate  in  contrast  to  the  ruggedness  of  her  face, 
were  large  gold  rings,  such  as  Sicilian  women  often  wear. 
They  swayed  in  response  to  her  perpetual  movements. 
Artois  watched  her  lips  as  they  opened  and  shut,  were 
compressed  or  thrust  forward,  watched  her  white  teeth 
gleaming.  She  lifted  her  two  hands,  doubled  into  fists, 
till  they  were  on  a  level  with  her  shoulders,  shook  them 
vehemently,  then  dashed  them  down  on  the  table.  The 

270 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

coffee-cup  was  overturned.  She  took  no  notice  of  it. 
She  was  heedless  of  everything  but  the  subject  which 
evidently  obsessed  her. 

The  boy,  Ruffo,  sat  quite  still  listening  to  her.  His 
attitude  was  calm.  Now  and  then  he  sipped  his  wine, 
and  presently  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  cigarette, 
lighted  it  carefully,  and  began  to  smoke.  There  was 
something  very  boyish  and  happy-go-lucky  in  his  atti- 
tude and  manner.  Evidently,  Artois  thought,  he  was 
very  much  at  home  with  this  middle-aged  woman. 
Probably  her  vehemence  was  to  him  an  every-day  affair. 
She  laid  one  hand  on  his  arm  and  bent  forward.  He 
slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  shook  his  head. 
She  kept  her  hand  on  his  arm,  went  on  talking  passion- 
ately, and  suddenly  began  to  weep.  Tears  rushed  out 
of  her  eyes.  Then  the  boy  took  her  hand  gently, 
stroked  it,  and  began  to  speak  to  her,  always  keeping 
her  hand  in  his.  The  woman,  with  a  despairing  move- 
ment, laid  her  face  down  on  the  table,  with  her  fore- 
head touching  the  wood.  Then  she  lifted  it  up.  The 
paroxysm  seemed  to  have  passed.  She  took  out  a 
handkerchief  from  inside  the  bodice  of  her  dress  and 
dried  her  eyes.  Ruffo  struck  the  table  with  his  glass. 
An  attendant  came.  He  paid  the  bill,  and  the  woman 
and  he  got  up  to  go.  As  they  did  so  Ruffo  presented  for 
a  moment  his  full  face  to  Artois,  and  Artois  swiftly  com- 
pared it  with  the  face  of  the  woman,  and  felt  sure  that 
they  were  mother  and  son. 

Artois  moved  on  towards  the  hill  of  Posilipo,  but 
after  taking  a  few  steps  turned  to  look  back.  The 
woman  and  Ruffo  had  come  into  the  road  by  the  tram- 
line. They  stood  there  for  a  moment,  talking.  Then 
Ruffo  crossed  over  to  the  path,  and  the  woman  went 
away  slowly  towards  the  Rotonda.  Seeing  Ruffo  alone 
Artois  turned  to  go  back,  thinking  to  have  a  word  with 
the  boy.  But  before  he  could  reach  him  he  saw  a  man 

271 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

step  out  from  behind  the  wooden  shanty  of  the  fisher- 
men and  join  him. 

This  man  was  Gaspare. 

Ruffo  and  Gaspare  strolled  slowly  away  towards  the 
jetty  where  the  yachts  lie,  and  presently  disappeared. 

Artois  found  Pasqualino  waiting  for  him  rather  im- 
patiently not  far  from  the  entrance  to  the  Scoglio  di 
Frisio. 

"I  thought  you  were  dead,  Signore,"  he  remarked,  as 
Artois  came  up. 

"I  was  watching  the  people." 

He  got  into  the  carriage. 

"They  are  canaglia,"  said  Pasqualino,  with  the  pro- 
found contempt  of  the  Neapolitan  coachman  for  those 
who  get  their  living  by  the  sea.  He  lived  at  Fuori- 
grotta,  and  thought  Mergellina  a  place  of  outer  darkness. 

"I  like  them,"  returned  Artois. 

"You  don't  know  them,  Signore.  I  say — they  are 
canaglia.  Where  shall  I  drive  you?" 

Artois  hesitated,  passing  in  mental  review  the  various 
ristoranti  on  the  hill. 

"Take  me  to  the  Ristorante  della  Stella,"  he  said,  at 
length. 

Pasqualino  cracked  his  whip,  and  drove  once  more 
merrily  onward. 

When  Artois  came  to  the  ristorante,  which  is  perched 
high  up  on  the  side  of  the  road  farthest  from  the  sea, 
he  had  almost  all  the  tables  to  choose  from,  as  it  was 
still  early  in  the  evening,  and  in  summer  the  Neapolitans 
who  frequent  the  more  expensive  restaurants  usually 
dine  late.  He  sat  down  at  a  table  in  the  open  air  close 
to  the  railing,  from  which  he  could  see  a  grand  view  of 
the  Bay,  as  well  as  all  that  was  passing  on  the  road 
beneath,  and  ordered  a  dinner  to  be  ready  in  half  an 
hour.  He  was  in  no  hurry,  and  wanted  to  finish  his  cigar. 

There  was  a  constant  traffic  below.  The  tram  -  bell 

272 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

sounded  its  reiterated  signal  to  the  crowds  of  dusty 
pedestrians  to  clear  the  way.  Donkeys  toiled  upward, 
drawing  carts  loaded  with  vegetables  and  fruit.  Ani- 
mated young  men,  wearing  tiny  straw  hats  cocked  im- 
pertinently to  one  side,  drove  frantically  by  in  light  gigs 
that  looked  like  the  skeletons  of  carriages,  holding  a 
rein  in  each  hand,  pulling  violently  at  their  horses' 
mouths,  and  shouting  "Ah — ah!"  as  if  possessed  of  the 
devil.  Smart  women  made  the  evening  "  Passeggiata  " 
in  landaus  and  low  victorias,  wearing  flambcjant  hats, 
and  gazing  into  the  eyes  of  the  watching  men  ranged 
along  the  low  wall  on  the  sea-side  with  a  cool  steadiness 
that  was  almost  Oriental.  Some  of  them  were  talking. 
But  by  far  the  greater  number  leaned  back  almost  im- 
mobile against  their  cushions;  and  their  pale  faces 
showed  nothing  but  the  languid  consciousness  of  be- 
ing observed  and,  perhaps,  desired.  Stout  Neapolitan 
fathers,  with  bulging  eyes,  immense  brown  cheeks,  and 
peppery  mustaches,  were  promenading  with  their  chil- 
dren and  little  dogs,  looking  lavishly  contented  with 
themselves.  Young  girls  went  primly  past,  holding 
their  narrow,  well-dressed  heads  with  a  certain  virginal 
stiffness  that  was  yet  not  devoid  of  grace,  and  casting 
down  eyes  that  were  supposed  not  yet  to  be  enlightened. 
Their  governesses  and  duennas  accompanied  them. 
Barefooted  brown  children  darted  in  and  out,  dodging 
pedestrians  and  horses.  Priests  and  black-robed  stu- 
dents chattered  vivaciously.  School-boys  with  peaked 
caps  hastened  homeward.  The  orphans  from  Queen 
Margherita's  Home,  higher  up  the  hill,  marched  sturdily 
through  the  dust  to  the  sound  of  a  boyish  but  desperately 
martial  music.  It  was  a  wonderfully  vivid  world,  but  the 
eyes  of  Artois  wandered  away  from  it,  over  the  terraces, 
the  houses,  and  the  tree-tops.  Their  gaze  dropped  down 
to  the  sea.  Far  off,  Capri  rose  out  of  the  light  mist  pro- 
duced by  the  heat.  And  beyond  was  Sicily. 

273 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Why  had  that  woman,  Ruffo's  mother,  wept  just  now? 
What  was  her  tragedy?  he  wondered.  Accurately  he 
recalled  her  face,  broad  now,  and  seamed  with  the  wrinkles 
brought  by  trouble  and  the  years. 

He  recalled,  too,  Ruffo's  attitude  as  the  boy  listened 
to  her  vehement,  her  almost  violent  harangue.  How 
boyish,  how  careless  it  had  been — yet  not  unkind  or 
even  disrespectful;  only  wonderfully  natural  and  won- 
derfully young. 

"He  was  the  deathless  boy." 

Suddenly  those  words  started  into  Artois'  mind.  Had 
he  read  them  somewhere?  For  a  moment  he  won- 
dered. Or  had  he  heard  them?  They  seemed  to  sug- 
gest speech,  a  voice  whose  intonations  he  knew.  His 
mind  was  still  fatigued  by  work,  and  would  not  be  com- 
manded by  his  will.  Keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ethereal  outline  of  Capri,  he  strove  to  remember,  to  find 
the  book  which  had  contained  those  words  and  given 
them  to  his  eyes,  or  the  voice  that  had  spoken  them 
and  given  them  to  his  ears. 

"He  was  the  deathless  boy." 

A  piano-organ  struck  up  below  him,  a  little  way  up 
the  hill  to  the  right,  and  above  its  hard  accompaniment 
there  rose  a  powerful  tenor  voice  singing: 

"Quanno  fa  notte  'nterra  Mergellina, 

Se  sceta  'o  mare  e  canta  chiano  chiano 
Se  'fa  chiu  doce  st  'aria  d  'a  marina, 
Pure  'e  serene  cantano  'a  luntano. 

"Quanno  fa  notte  'nterra  Mergellina — " 

The  song  must  have  struck  forcibly  upon  some  part  of 
his  brain  that  was  sleeping,  must  have  summoned  it  to 
activity.  For  instantly,  ere  the  voice  had  sung  the  first 
verse,  he  saw  imaginatively  a  mountain  top  in  Sicily, 
evening  light — such  as  was  then  shining  over  and  trans- 

274 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

figuring  Capri — and  a  woman,  Hermione.  And  he  heard 
her  voice,  very  soft,  with  a  strange  depth  and  still- 
ness in  it,  saying  those  words:  "He  was  the  deathless 
boy." 

Of  course!  How  could  he  have  forgotten?  They 
had  been  said  of  Maurice  Delarey.  And  now  idly, 
strangely,  he  had  recalled  them  as  he  thought  of  Ruffo's 
young  and  careless  attitude  by  the  table  of  the  ristorante 
that  afternoon. 

The  waiter,  coming  presently  to  bring  the  French 
Signore  the  plate  of  oysters  from  Fusaro,  which  he  had 
ordered  as  the  prelude  to  his  dinner,  was  surprised  by 
the  deep  gravity  of  his  face,  and  said: 

"Don't  you  like  'A  Mergellina,'  Signore?  We  are  all 
mad  about  it.  And  it  won  the  first  prize  at  last  year's 
festa  of  Piedigrotta." 

"Comment  done?"  exclaimed  Artois,  as  if  startled. 
"What? — no — yes.  I  like  it.  It's  a  capital  song. 
Lemon?  That's  right — and  red  pepper.  Va  bene!" 

And  he  bent  over  his  plate  rather  hurriedly  and  be- 
gan to  eat. 

The  piano-organ  and  the  singing  voice  died  away 
down  the  hill,  going  towards  Mergellina: 

"E  custa  luna  dint'  'essere  e  state 

Lo  vularria  durmi,  ma  nun  e  cosa; 
Me  scentene  d'  'o  suonno  'e  sti  sarate, 

O'  Mare  'e  Mergellina  e  1'  uocchie  'e  Rosa." 

But  the  effect,  curious  and  surely  unreasonable,  of 
the  song  remained.  Often,  while  he  ate,  Artois  turned 
his  eyes  towards  the  mountain  of  Capri,  and  each  time 
that  he  did  so  he  saw,  beyond  it  and  its  circling  sea, 
Sicily,  Monte  Amato,  the  dying  lights  on  Etna,  the  even- 
ing star  above  its  plume  of  smoke,  the  figure  of  a  woman 
set  in  the  shadow  of  her  sorrow,  yet  almost  terribly 
serene;  and  then  another  woman,  sitting  at  a  table, 

275 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

vehemently  talking,  then  bowing  down  her  head  pas- 
sionately as  if  in  angry  grief. 

When  he  had  finished  his  dinner  the  sun  had  set,  and 
night  had  dropped  down  softly  over  the  Bay.  Capri 
had  disappeared.  The  long  serpent  of  lights  had  un- 
coiled itself  along  the  sea.  Down  below,  very  far  down, 
^here  was  the  twang  and  the  thin,  acute  whine  of  guitars 
and  mandolines,  the  throbbing  cry  of  Southern  voices. 
The  stars  were  out  in  a  deep  sky  of  bloomy  purple. 
There  was  no  chill  in  the  air,  but  a  voluptuous,  brood- 
ing warmth,  that  shed  over  the  city  and  the  waters  a 
luxurious  benediction,  giving  absolution,  surely,  to  all 
the  sins,  to  all  the  riotous  follies  of  the  South. 

Artois  rested  his  arms  on  the  balustrade. 

The  ristorante  was  nearly  full  now,  gay  with  lights 
and  with  a  tempest  of  talk.  The  waiter  came  to  ask 
if  the  Signore  would  take  coffee. 

Artois  hesitated  a  moment,  then  shook  his  head.  He 
realized  that  his  nerves  had  been  tried  enough  in  these 
last  days  and  nights.  He  must  let  them  rest  for  a 
while. 

The  waiter  went  away,  and  he  turned  once  more  tow- 
ards the  sea.  To-night  he  felt  the  wonder  of  Italy,  of 
this  part  of  the  land  and  of  its  people,  as  he  had  not 
felt  it  before,  in  a  new  and,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  a  mys- 
terious way.  A  very  modern  man  and,  in  his  art,  a 
realist,  to-night  there  was  surely  something  very  young 
alert  within  him,  something  of  vague  sentimentality 
that  was  like  an  echo  from  Byronic  days.  He  felt  over- 
shadowed, but  not  unpleasantly,  by  a  dim  and  exquisite 
melancholy,  in  which  he  thought  of  nature  and  of  hu- 
man nature  pathetically,  linking  them  together;  those 
singing  voices  with  the  stars,  the  women  who  leaned  on 
balconies  to  listen  with  the  sea  that  was  murmuring 
below  them,  the  fishermen  upon  that  sea  with  the  deep 
and  marvellous  sky  that  watched  their  labors. 

276 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

In  a  beautiful  and  almost  magical  sadness  he  too  was 
one  with  the  night,  this  night  in  Italy.  It  held  him 
softly  in  its  arms.  A  golden  sadness  streamed  from  the 
stars.  The  voices  below  expressed  it.  The  fishermen's 
torches  in  the  Bay,  those  travelling  lights  that  are  as 
the  eyes  of  the  South  searching  for  charmed  things  in 
secret  places,  lifted  the  sorrows  of  earth  towards  the 
stars,  and  they  were  golden  too.  There  was  a  joy  even 
in  the  tears  wept  on  such  a  night  as  this. 

He  loved  detail.  It  was,  perhaps,  his  fault  to  love 
it  too  much.  But  now  he  realized  that  the  magician, 
Night,  knew  better  than  he  what  were  the  qualities  of 
perfection.  She  had  changed  Naples  into  a  diaper  of 
jewels  sparkling  softly  in  the  void.  He  knew  that  be- 
hind that  lacework  of  jewels  there  were  hotels,  gaunt 
and  discolored  houses  full  of  poverty,  shame,  and 
wickedness,  galleries  in  which  men  hunted  the  things 
that  gratify  their  lusts,  alleys  infected  with  disease  and 
filth  indescribable.  He  knew  it,  but  he  no  longer  felt 
it.  The  glamour  of  the  magician  was  upon  him.  Per- 
haps behind  the  stars  there  were  terrors,  too.  But  who, 
looking  upon  them,  could  believe  it?  Detail  might 
create  a  picture ;  its  withdrawal  let  in  upon  the  soul  the 
spirit  light  of  the  true  magic. 

It  was  a  mistake  to  search  too  much,  to  draw  too  near, 
to  seek  always  to  see  clearly. 

The  Night  taught  that  in  Italy,  and  many  things  not 
to  be  clothed  with  words. 

Reluctantly  at  last  he  lifted  his  arms  from  the  balcony 
rail  and  got  up  to  leave  the  restaurant.  He  dreaded  the 
bustle  of  the  street.  As  he  came  out  into  it  he  heard  the 
sharp  "Ting!  ting!"  of  a  tram-bell  higher  up  the  hill, 
and  stepped  aside  to  let  the  tram  go  by.  Idly  he  looked 
at  it  as  it  approached.  He  was  still  in  the  vague,  the 
almost  sentimental  mood  that  had  come  upon  him  with 
the  night.  The  tram  came  up  level  with  him  and  slipped 

277 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

slowly  by.  There  was  a  number  of  people  in  it,  but  on 
the  last  seat  one  woman  sat  alone.  He  saw  her  clearly 
as  she  passed,  and  recognized  Hermione. 

She  did  not  see  him.  She  was  looking  straight  be- 
fore her. 

"Ah-ah!     Ah-ah!" 

A  shower  of  objurgations  in  the  Neapolitan  dialect 
fell  upon  Artois  from  the  box  of  a  carriage  coming  up 
the  hill.  He  jumped  back  and  gained  the  path.  There 
again  he  stood  still.  The  sweet  and  half  -  melancholy 
vagueness  had  quite  left  him  now.  The  sight  of  his 
friend  had  swept  it  away.  Why  was  she  going  to  Mer- 
gellina  at  that  hour  ?  And  why  did  she  look  like  that  ? 

And  he  thought  of  the  expression  he  had  seen  on  her 
face  as  the  tram  slipped  by,  an  expression  surely  of  ex- 
citement, but  also  a  furtive  expression. 

Artois  had  seen  Hermione  in  all  her  moods,  and  hers 
was  a  very  changeful  face.  But  never  before  had  he 
seen  her  look  furtive.  Nor  could  he  have  conceived  it 
possible  that  she  could  look  so. 

Perhaps  the  lights  had  deceived  him.  And  he  had 
only  seen  her  for  an  instant. 

But  why  was  she  going  to  Mergellina  ? 

Then  suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  be 
going  to  Naples,  not  to  Mergellina  at  all.  He  knew  no 
reason  why  her  destination  should  be  Mergellina.  He 
began  to  walk  down  the  hill  rather  quickly.  Some  hun- 
dreds of  yards  below  the  Ristorante  della  Stella  there 
is  a  narrow  flight  of;  steps  between  high  walls  and  houses, 
which  leads  eventually  down  to  the  sea  at  a  point  where 
there  are  usually  two  or  three  boats  waiting  for  hire. 
Artois,  when  he  started,  had  no  intention  of  going  to  sea 
that  night,  but  when  he  reached  the  steps  he  paused, 
and  finally  turned  from  the  path  and  began  to  descend 
them. 

He  had  realized  that  he  was  really  in  pursuit,  and 

278 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

abruptly  relinquished  his  purpose.  Why  should  he 
wish  to  interfere  with  an  intention  of  Hermione's  that 
night  ? 

He  would  return  to  Naples  by  sea. 

As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  water  there  rose  up  to  him 
in  a  light  tenor  voice  a  melodious  cry: 

"Barca!     Barca!" 

He  answered  the  call. 

"Barca!" 

The  sailor  who  was  below  came  gayly  to  meet  him. 

"It  is  a  lovely  night  for  the  Signore.  I  could  take 
the  Signore  to  Sorrento  or  to  Capri  to-night." 

He  held  Artois  by  the  right  arm,  gently  assisting  him 
into  the  broad-bottomed  boat. 

"I  only  want  to  go  to  Naples." 

"To  which  landing,  Signore?" 

"The  Vittoria.  But  go  quietly  and  keep  near  the 
shore.  Go  round  as  near  as  you  can  to  the  Mergellina." 

"Va  bene,  Signore." 

They  slipped  out,  with  a  delicious,  liquid  sound,  upon 
the  moving  silence  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

HERMIONE  was  not  going  to  Mergellina,  but  to  the 
Scoglio  di  Frisio.  She  had  only  come  out  of  her  room 
late  in  the  afternoon.  During  her  seclusion  there  she 
had  once  been  disturbed  by  Gaspare,  who  had  come  to 
ask  her  if  she  wanted  him  for  anything,  and,  if  not, 
whether  he  might  go  over  to  Mergellina  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  to  see  some  friends  he  had  made  there. 
She  told  him  he  was  free  till  night,  and  he  went  away 
quickly,  after  one  searching,  wide-eyed  glance  at  the 
face  of  his  Padrona. 

When  he  had  gone  Hermione  told  herself  that  she  was 
glad  he  was  away.  If  he  had  been  on  the  island  she 
might  have  been  tempted  to  take  one  of  the  boats,  to 
ask  him  to  row  her  to  the  Scoglio  that  evening.  But 
now,  of  course,  she  would  not  go.  It  was  true  that  she 
could  easily  get  a  boatman  from  the  village  on  the  main- 
land near  by,  but  without  Gaspare's  companionship  she 
would  not  care  to  go.  So  that  was  settled.  She  would 
think  no  more  about  it.  She  had  tea  with  Vere,  and 
strove  with  all  her  might  to  be  natural,  to  show  no  traces 
in  face  or  manner  of  the  storm  that  had  swept  over  her 
that  day.  She  hoped,  she  believed  that  she  was  success- 
ful. But  what  a  hateful,  what  an  unnatural  effort  that 
was! 

A  woman  who  is  not  at  her  ease  in  her  own  home  with 
her  own  girl — where  can  she  be  at  ease  ? 

It  was  really  the  reaction  from  that  effort  that  sent 
Hermione  from  the  island  that  evening.  She  felt  as  if 

280 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

she  could  not  face  another  meal  with  Vere  just  then. 
She  felt  transparent,  as  if  Vere's  eyes  would  be  able  to 
see  all  that  she  must  hide  if  they  were  together  in  the 
evening.  And  she  resolved  to  go  away.  She  made 
some  excuse — that  she  wished  for  a  little  change,  that 
she  was  fidgety  and  felt  the  confinement  of  the  island. 

"I  think  I'll  go  over  to  the  village,"  she  said,  "and 
walk  up  to  the  road  and  take  the  tram." 

"Will  you,  Madre?" 

Hermione  saw  in  Vere's  eyes  that  the  girl  was  waiting 
for  something. 

"I'll  go  by  myself,  Vere,"  she  said.  " I  should  be  bad 
company  to-day.  The  black  dog  is  at  my  heels." 

She  laughed,  and  added: 

"If  I  am  late  in  coming  back,  have  dinner  without 
me." 

"Very  well,  Madre." 

Vere  waited  a  moment;  then,  as  if  desiring  to  break 
forcibly  through  the  restraint  that  bound  them,  put  out 
her  hand  to  her  mother's  and  said: 

"Why  don't  you  go  in  to  Naples  and  have  dinner  with 
Monsieur  Emile  ?  He  would  cheer  you  up,  and  it  is 
ages  since  we  have  seen  him." 

"Only  two  or  three  days.  No.  I  won't  disturb 
Emile.  He  may  be  working." 

Vere  felt  that  somehow  her  eager  suggestion  had 
deepened  the  constraint.  She  said  no  more,  and  Her- 
mione presently  crossed  over  to  the  mainland  and  began 
her  walk  to  the  road  that  leads  from  Naples  to  Bagnoli. 

Where  was  she  going?  What  was  she  really  about 
to  do? 

Certainly  she  would  not  adopt  the  suggestion  of  Vere. 
Emile  was  the  last  person  whom  she  wished  to  see — by 
whom  she  wished  to  be  seen — just  then. 

The  narrow  path  turned  away  from  the  sea  into  the 
shadow  of  high  banks.  She  walked  very  slowly,  like 

281 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

one  out  for  a  desultory  stroll;  a  lizard  slipped  across 
the  warm  earth  in  front  of  her,  almost  touching  her  foot, 
climbed  the  bank  swiftly,  and  vanished  among  the  dry 
leaves  with  a  faint  rustle. 

She  felt  quite  alone  to-day  in  Italy,  and  far  off,  as  if 
she  had  no  duties,  no  ties,  as  if  she  were  one  of  those 
solitary,  drifting,  middle  -  aged  women  who  vaguely 
haunt  the  beaten  tracks  of  foreign  lands.  It  was  sultry 
in  this  path  away  from  the  sea.  She  was  sharply  con- 
scious of  the  change  of  climate,  the  inland  sensation,  the 
falling  away  of  the  freedom  from  her,  the  freedom  that 
seems  to  exhale  from  wave  and  wind  of  the  wave. 

She  walked  on,  meeting  no  one  and  still  undecided 
what  to  do.  The  thought  of  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio  re- 
turned to  her  mind,  was  dismissed,  returned  again.  She 
might  go  and  dine  there  quietly  alone.  Was  she  de- 
ceiving herself,  and  had  she  really  made  up  her  mind  to 
go  to  the  Scoglio  before  she  left  the  island  ?  No,  she  had 
come  away  mainly  because  she  felt  the  need  of  solitude, 
the  difficulty  of  being  with  Vere  just  for  this  one  night. 
To-morrow  it  would  be  different.  It  should  be  different 
to-morrow. 

She  saw  a  row  of  houses  in  the  distance,  houses  of  poor 
people,  and  knew  that  she  was  nearing  the  road.  Cloth.es 
were  hanging  to  dry.  Children  were  playing  at  the  edge 
of  a  vineyard.  Women  were  washing  linen,  men  sitting 
on  the  doorsteps  mending  nasse.  As  she  went  by  she 
nodded  to  them,  and  bade  them  "Buona  sera."  They 
answered  courteously,  some  with  smiling  faces,  others 
with  grave  and  searching  looks — or  so  she  thought. 

The  tunnel  that  runs  beneath  the  road  at  the  point 
where  this  path  joins  it  came  in  sight.  And  still  Her- 
mione  did  not  know  what  she  was  going  to  do.  As  she 
entered  the  tunnel  she  heard  above  her  head  the  rumble 
of  a  tram  going  towards  Naples.  This  decided  her.  She 
hurried  on,  turned  to  the  right,  and  came  out  on  the 

282 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

highway  before  the  little  lonely  ristorante  that  is  set 
here  to  command  the  view  of  vineyards  and  of  sea. 

The  tram  was  already  gliding  away  at  some  distance 
down  the  road. 

A  solitary  waiter  came  forward  in  his  unsuitable  black 
into  the  dust  to  sympathize  with  the  Signora,  and  to 
suggest  that  she  should  take  a  seat  and  drink  some  lemon 
water,  or  gazzosa,  while  waiting  for  the  next  tram.  Or 
would  not  the  Signora  dine  in  the  upper  room  and  watch 
the  tramontare  del  sole.  It  would  be  splendid  this  even- 
ing. And  he  could  promise  her  an  excellent  risotto, 
sardines  with  pomidoro,  and  a  bifteck  such  as  certainly 
she  could  not  get  in  the  restaurants  of  Naples. 

"Very  well,"  Hermione  answered,  quickly,  "I  will  dine 
here,  but  not  directly — in  half  an  hour  or  three-quarters." 

What  Artois  was  doing  at  the  Ristorante  della  Stella 
she  was  doing  at  the  Trattoria  del  Giardinetto. 

She  would  dine  quietly  here,  and  then  walk  back  to 
the  sea  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

That  was  her  decision.  Yet  when  the  evening  fell, 
and  her  bill  was  paid,  she  took  the  tram  that  was  going 
down  to  Naples,  and  passed  presently  before  the  eyes  of 
Artois.  The  coming  of  darkness  had  revived  within  her 
much  of  the  mood  of  the  afternoon.  She  felt  that  she 
could  not  go  home  without  doing  something  definite, 
and  she  resolved  to  go  to  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio,  have  a 
cup  of  coffee  there,  look  through  the  visitors'  book,  and 
then  take  a  boat  and  return  by  night  to  the  island.  The 
sea  wind  would  cool  her,  would  do  her  good. 

Nothing  told  her  when  the  eyes  of  her  friend  were  for 
an  instant  fixed  upon  her,  when  the  mind  of  her  friend 
for  a  moment  wondered  at  the  strange,  new  look  in  her 
face.  She  left  the  tram  presently  at  the  doorway  above 
which  is  Frisio's  name,  descended  to  the  little  terrace 
from  which  Vere  had  run  in  laughing  with  the  Mar- 
chesino,  and  stood  there  for  a  moment  hesitating. 
'»  283 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  long  restaurant  was  lit  up,  and  from  it  came  the 
sound  of  music — guitars,  and  a  voice  singing.  She  rec- 
ognized the  throaty  tenor  of  the  blind  man  raised  in  a 
spurious  and  sickly  rapture: 

"  Sa-anta-a  Lu-u-ci-ia!     Santa  Luci — a!" 

It  recalled  her  sharply  to  the  night  of  the  storm.  For 
a  moment  she  felt  again  the  strange,  the  unreasonable 
sense  of  fear,  indefinable  but  harsh,  which  had  come 
upon  her  then,  as  fear  comes  suddenly  sometimes  upon 
a  child. 

Then  she  stepped  into  the  restaurant. 

As  on  the  other  night,  there  were  but  few  people  din- 
ing there,  and  they  were  away  at  the  far  end  of  the  big 
room.  Near  them  stood  the  musicians  under  a  light — 
seedy,  depressed;  except  the  blind  man,  who  lifted  his 
big  head,  rolled  his  tongue,  and  swelled  and  grew  scarlet 
in  an  effort  to  be  impressive. 

Hermione  sat  down  at  the  first  table. 

For  a  moment  no  one  saw  her.  She  heard  men  s  voices 
talking  loudly  and  gayly,  the  clatter  of  plates,  the  clink 
of  knives  and  forks.  She  looked  round  for  the  visitors' 
book.  If  it  were  lying  near  she  thought  she  would  open 
it,  search  for  what  Emile  had  written,  and  then  slip 
away  at  once  unobserved. 

There  was  a  furtive  spirit  within  her  to-night. 

But  she  could  not  see  the  book;  so  she  sat  still,  lis- 
tening to  the  blind  man  and  gazing  at  the  calm  sea  just 
below  her.  A  boat  was  waiting  there.  She  could  see 
the  cushions,  which  were  white  and  looked  ghastly  in 
the  darkness,  the  dim  form  of  the  rower  standing  up  to 
search  for  clients. 

"Barca!     Barca!" 

He  had  seen  her. 

She  drew  back  a  little.  As  she  did  so  her  chair  made 
a  grating  noise,  and  instantly  the  sharp  ears  of  the 

284 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Padrone  caught  a  sound  betokening  the  presence  of  a 
new-comer  in  his  restaurant.  It  might  be  a  queen,  an 
empress!  Who  could  tell? 

With  his  stiff  yet  alert  military  gait,  he  at  once  came 
marching  down  towards  her,  staring  hard  with  his  big, 
bright  eyes.  When  he  saw  who  it  was  he  threw  up  his 
brown  hands. 

"The  Signora  of  the  storm!"  he  exclaimed.  He 
moved  as  if  about  to  turn  around.  "I  must  tell — •" 

But  Hermione  stopped  him  with  a  quick,  decisive 
gesture. 

"One  moment,  Signore." 

The  Padrone  approached  aristocratically. 

"The  Marchese  Isidoro  Panacci  is  here  dining  with 
friends,  the  Duca  di — " 

"Yes,  yes.  But  I  am  only  here  for  a  moment,  so  it 
is  not  worth  while  to  tell  the  Marchese." 

"You  are  not  going  to  dine,  Signora!  The  food  of 
Frisio  does  not  please  you!" 

He  cast  up  his  eyes  in  deep  distress. 

"Indeed  it  does.  But  I  have  dined.  What  I  want  is 
a  cup  of  coffee,  and — and  a  liqueur — une  fine.  And  may 
I  look  over  your  wonderful  visitors'  book  ?  To  tell  the 
truth,  that  is  what  I  have  come  for,  to  see  the  marvellous 
book.  I  hadn't  enough  time  the  other  night.  May  I?" 

The  Padrone  was  appeased.  He  smiled  graciously  and 
turned  upon  his  heels. 

"At  once,  Signora." 

"And — not  a  word  to  the  Marchese!  He  is  with 
friends.  I  would  rather  not  disturb  him." 

The  Padrone  threw  up  his  chin  and  clicked  his  tongue 
against  his  teeth.  A  shrewd,  though  not  at  all  im- 
pudent, expression  had  come  into  his  face.  A  Signora 
alone,  at  night,  in  a  restaurant!  He  was  a  man  of  the 
great  world.  He  understood.  What  a  mercy  it  was 
to  be  "educate"! 

285 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  came  back  again  almost  directly,  bearing  the  book 
as  a  sacristan  might  bear  a  black-letter  Bible. 

"Ecco,  Signora." 

With  a  superb  gesture  he  placed  it  before  her. 

"The  coffee,  the  fine.  Attendez,  Signora,  pour  un 
petit  momento." 

He  stood  to  see  the  effect  of  his  French  upon  her. 
She  forced  into  her  face  a  look  of  pious  admiration,  and 
he  at  once  departed.  Hermione  opened  the  book  rather 
furtively.  She  had  the  unpleasant  sensation  of  doing 
a  surreptitious  action,  and  she  was  an  almost  abnor- 
mally straightforward  woman  by  nature.  The  book  was 
large,  and  contained  an  immense  number  of  inscriptions 
and  signatures  in  handwritings  that  varied  as  strangely 
as  do  the  characters  of  men.  She  turned  the  leaves 
hastily.  Where  had  Emile  written?  Not  at  the  end 
of  the  book.  She  remembered  that  his  signature  had 
been  followed  by  others,  although  she  had  not  seen,  or 
tried  to  see,  what  he  had  written.  Perhaps  his  name 
was  near  Tolstoy's.  They  had  read  together  Tolstoy's 
Vedi  Napoli  e  poi  Mori, 

But  where  was  Tolstoy's  name? 

A  waiter  came  with  the  coffee  and  the  brandy.  She 
thanked  him  quickly,  sipped  the  coffee  without  tasting 
it,  and  continued  the  search. 

The  voice  of  the  blind  man  died  away.  The  guitars 
ceased. 

She  started.  She  was  afraid  the  musicians  would 
come  down  and  gather  round  her.  Why  had  she  not 
told  the  Padrone  she  wished  to  be  quite  alone?  She 
heard  the  shuffle  of  feet.  They  were  coming.  Feverish- 
ly she  turned  the  pages.  Ah!  here  it  was!  She  bent 
down  over  the  page. 

"  La  conscience,  c'est  la  quantit6  de  science  inne'e  que 
nous  avons  en  nous.  EMILE  ARTOIS. 

"  Nuit  d'orage.     Juin." 

286 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  guitars  began  a  prelude.  The  blind  man  shifted 
from  one  fat  leg  to  another,  cast  up  his  sightless  eyes, 
protruded  and  drew  in  his  tongue,  coughed,  spat — 

"Cameriere!" 

Hermione  struck  upon  the  table  sharply.  She  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  Marchesino.  She  was  full  of  the 
desire  to  escape,  to  get  away  and  be  out  on  the  sea. 

"Cameriere!" 

She  called  more  loudly. 

A  middle-aged  waiter  came  shuffling  over  the  floor. 

"The  bill,  please." 

As  she  spoke  she  drank  the  brandy. 

"Si,  Signora." 

He  stood  beside  her. 

"One  coffee?" 

"Si." 

"One  cognac?" 

"Si,  si." 

The  blind  man  burst  into  song. 

"One  fifty,  Signora." 

Hermione  gave  him  a  two-lire  piece  and  got  up  to  go. 

"Signora — buona  sera!     What  a  pleasure!" 

The  Marchesino  stood  before  her,  smiling,  bowing.  He 
took  her  hand,  bent  over  it,  and  kissed  it. 

"What  a  pleasure!"  he  repeated,  glancing  round. 
"And  you  are  alone?  The  Signorina  is  not  here?" 

He  stared  suspiciously  towards  the  terrace. 

"And  our  dear  friend  Emilio?" 

"No,  no.     I  am  quite  alone." 

The  blind  man  bawled,  as  if  he  wished  to  drown  the 
sound  of  speech. 

"Please — could  you  stop  him,  Marchese?"  said  Her- 
mione. "I — really — give  him  this  for  me." 

She  gave  the  Marchese  a  lira. 

"Signora,  it  isn't  necessary.  Silenzio!  Silenzio! 
P-sh-sh-sh!" 

287 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

He  hissed  sharply,  almost  furiously.  The  musicians 
abruptly  stopped,  and  the  blind  man  made  a  gurgling 
sound,  as  if  he  were  swallowing  the  unfinished  portion 
of  his  song. 

"No;   please  pay  them." 

"It's  too  much." 

"Never  mind." 

The  Marchese  gave  the  lire  to  the  blind  man,  and  the 
musicians  went  drearily  out. 

Then  Hermione  held  out  her  hand  at  once. 

"I  must  go  now.     It  is  late." 

"You  are  going  by  sea,  Signora?" 

"Yes." 

"I  will  accompany  you." 

"No,  indeed.  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  You  have 
friends." 

"They  will  understand.     Have  you  your  own  boat?" 

"No." 

"Then  of  course  I  shall  come  with  you." 

But  Hermione  was  firm.  She  knew  that  to-night  the 
company  of  this  young  man  would  be  absolutely  un- 
bearable. 

"Marchese,  indeed  I  cannot —I  cannot  allow  it.  We 
Englishwomen  are  very  independent,  you  know.  But 
you  may  call  me  a  boat  and  take  me  down  to  it,  as  you 
are  so  kind." 

"With  pleasure,  Signora." 

He  went  to  the  open  window.  At  once  the  boatman's 
cry  rose  up. 

"Barca!    barca!" 

"That  is  Andrea's  voice,"  said  the  Marchesino.  "I 
know  him.  Barca — si!" 

The  boat  began  to  glide  in  towards  the  land. 

As  they  went  out  the  Marchesino  said: 

"And  how  is  the  Signorina?" 

"Very  well." 

288 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"  I  have  had  a  touch  of  fever,  Signora,  or  I  should  have 
come  over  to  the  island  again.  I  stayed  too  long  in  the 
sea  the  other  day,  or —  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Hermione.  "You  are  very  pale 
to-night." 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  at  him  closely,  and  saw 
that  his  face  was  white,  and  that  his  big  and  boyish  eyes 
held  a  tired  and  yet  excited  expression. 

"It  is  nothing.  It  has  passed.  And  our  friend — 
Emilio  ?  How  is  he  ?" 

A  hardness  had  come  into  his  voice.  Hermione  no- 
ticed it. 

"We  have  not  seen  him  lately.  I  suppose  he  has 
been  busy." 

"Probably.  Emilio  has  much  to  do  in  Naples,"  said 
the  Marchesino,  with  an  unmistakable  sneer.  "Do  al- 
low me  to  escort  you  to  the  island,  Signora." 

They  had  reached  the  boat.  Hermione  shook  her  head 
and  stepped  in  at  once. 

"Then  when  may  I  come?" 

"Whenever  you  like." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Certainly." 

"At  what  time?" 

Hermione  suddenly  remembered  his  hospitality  and 
felt  that  she  ought  to  return  it. 

"Come  to  lunch — half-past  twelve.  We  shall  be  quite 
alone." 

"Signora,  for  loneliness  with  you  and  the  Signorina  I 
would  give  up  every  friend  I  have  ever  had.  I  would 
give  up — 

"Half-past  twelve,  then,  Marchese.     Addio!" 

"A  rivederci,  Signora!  A  demain!  Andrea,  take  care 
cf  the  Signora.  Treat  her  as  you  would  treat  the  Ma- 
donna. Do  you  hear?" 

The  boatman  grinned  and  took  off  his  cap,  and  the 
289 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

boat  glided  away  across  the  path  of  yellow  light  that 
was  shed  from  the  window  of  Frisio's. 

Hermione  leaned  back  against  the  white  cushions. 
She  was  thankful  to  escape.  She  felt  tired  and  confused. 
That  dreadful  music  had  distracted  her,  that — and  some- 
thing else,  her  tricked  expectation.  She  knew  now  that 
she  had  been  very  foolish,  perhaps  even  very  fantastic. 
She  had  felt  so  sure  that  Emile  had  written  in  that  book 
— what  ? 

As  the  boat  went  softly  on  she  asked  herself  exactly 
what  she  had  expected  to  find  written  there,  and  she 
realized  that  her  imagination  had,  as  so  often  before, 
been  galloping  like  a  frightened  horse  with  the  reins  upon 
its  neck.  And  then  she  began  to  consider  what  he  had 
written. 

"La  conscience,  c'est  la  quantite  de  science  inne'e  que 
nous  avons  en  nous." 

She  did  not  know  the  words.  Were  they  his  own  or 
another's?  And  had  he  written  them  simply  because 
they  had  chanced  to  come  into  his  mind  at  the  moment, 
or  because  they  expressed  some  underthought  or  feeling 
that  had  surged  up  in  him  just  then?  She  wished  she 
knew. 

It  was  a  fine  saying,  she  thought,  but  for  the  moment 
she  was  less  interested  in  it  than  in  Emile's  mood,  his 
mind,  when  he  had  written  it.  She  realized  now,  on 
this  calm  of  the  sea,  how  absurd  had  been  the  thought 
that  a  man  so  subtle  as  Emile  would  flagrantly  reveal  a 
passing  phase  of  his  nature,  a  secret  irritability,  a  jeal- 
ousy, perhaps,  or  a  sudden  hatred  in  a  sentence  written 
for  any  eyes  that  chose  to  see.  But  he  might  covertly 
reveal  himself  to  one  who  understood  him  well. 

She  sat  still,  trying  to  match  her  subtlety  against  his. 

From  the  shore  came  sounds  of  changing  music,  low 
down  or  falling  to  them  from  the  illuminated  heights 
where  people  were  making  merry  in  the  night.  Now 

290 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  then  a  boat  passed  them.  In  one,  young  men  were 
singing,  and  interrupting  their  song  to  shout  with 
laughter.  Here  and  there  a  fisherman's  torch  glided 
like  a  great  fire-fly  above  the  oily  darkness  of  the  sea. 
The  distant  trees  of  the  gardens  climbing  up  the  hill 
made  an  ebony  blackness  beneath  the  stars,  a  black- 
ness that  suggested  impenetrable  beauty  that  lay  deep 
down  with  hidden  face.  And  the  lights  dispersed  among 
them,  gaining  significance  by  their  solitude,  seemed  to 
summon  adventurous  or  romantic  spirits  to  come  to 
them  by  secret  paths  and  learn  their  revelation.  Over 
the  sea  lay  a  delicate  warmth,  not  tropical,  not  enervat- 
ing, but  softly  inspiring.  And  beyond  the  circling  lamps 
of  Naples  Vesuvius  lit  up  the  firmament  with  a  torrent 
of  rose-colored  fire  that  glowed  and  died,  and  glowed 
again,  constantly  as  beats  a  heart. 

And  to  Hermione  came  a  melancholy  devoid  of  all 
violence,  soft  almost  as  the  warmth  upon  this  sea,  quiet 
as  the  resignation  of  the  fatalistic  East.  She  felt  herself 
for  a  moment  such  a  tiny,  dark  thing  caught  in  the 
meshes  of  the  great  net  of  the  Universe,  this  Universe 
that  she  could  never  understand.  What  could  she  do  ? 
She  must  just  sink  down  upon  the  breast  of  mystery,  let 
it  take  her,  hold  her,  do  with  her  what  it  would. 

Her  subtlety  against  Emile's!  She  smiled  to  herself  in 
the  dark.  What  a  combat  of  midgets!  She  seemed  to 
see  two  marionettes  battling  in  the  desert. 

And  yet  —  and  yet!  She  remembered  a  saying  of 
Flaubert's,  that  man  is  like  a  nomad  journeying  on  a 
camel  through  the  desert;  and  he  is  the  nomad,  and  the 
camel — and  the  desert. 

How  true  that  was,  for  even  now,  as  she  felt  herself 
to  be  nothing,  she  felt  herself  to  be  tremendous. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  oars  from  the  darkness  before 
them,  and  saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  boat,  then  the  eyes  of 
Emile  looking  straight  into  hers. 

2OI 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Emile!" 

"Hermione!" 

His  face  was  gone.  But  yielding  to  her  impulse  she 
made  Andrea  stop,  and,  turning  round,  saw  that  the 
other  boat  had  also  stopped  a  little  way  from  hers.  It 
began  to  back,  and  in  a  moment  was  level  with  them. 

"Emile!  How  strange  to  meet  you!  Have  —  you 
haven't  been  to  the  island?" 

"No.  I  was  tired.  I  have  been  working  very  hard. 
I  dined  quietly  at  Posilipo." 

He  did  not  ask  her  where  she  had  been. 

"Yes.  I  think  you  look  tired,"  she  said.  He  did  not 
speak,  and  she  added:  "I  felt  restless,  so  I  took  the  tram 
from  the  Trattoria  del  Giardinetto  as  far  as  the  Scoglio 
di  Frisio,  and  am  going  back,  as  you  see,  by  boat." 

"It  is  exquisite  on  the  sea  to-night,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  exquisite;  it  makes  one  sad." 

She  remembered  all  she  had  been  through  that  day, 
as  she  looked  at  his  powerful  face. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.     "It  makes  one  sad." 

For  a  moment  she  felt  that  they  were  again  in  perfect 
sympathy,  as  they  used  to  be.  Their  sadness,  born  of 
the  dreaming  hour,  united  them. 

"Come  soon  to  the  island,  dear  Emile,"  she  said,  sud- 
denly and  with  the  impulsiveness  that  was  part  of  her, 
forgetting  all  her  jealousy  and  all  her  shadowy  fears. 
"I  have  missed  you." 

He  noticed  that  she  ruled  out  Vere  in  that  sentence; 
but  the  warmth  of  her  voice  stirred  warmth  in  him,  and 
he  answered: 

"Let  me  come  to-morrow." 

"Do— do!" 

"In  the  morning,  to  lunch,  and  to  spend  a  long  day." 

Suddenly  she  remembered  the  Marchesino  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice  when  he  had  spoken  of  his  friend. 

"Lunch?"  she  said. 

292 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Instantly  he  caught  her  hesitation,  her  dubiety. 

"It  isn't  convenient,  perhaps?" 

"Perfectly,  only — only  the  Marchesino  is  coming." 

' '  To-morrow  ? — To  lunch  ?' ' 

The  hardness  of  the  Marchesino's  voice  was  echoed 
now  in  the  voice  of  Artois.  There  was  antagonism  be- 
tween these  men.  Hermione  realized  it. 

"Yes.     I  invited  him  this  evening." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.     Then  Artois  said: 

"I'll  come  some  other  day,  Hermione.  Well,  my 
friend,  au  revoir,  and  bon  voyage  to  the  island." 

His  voice  had  suddenly  become  cold,  and  he  signed 
to  his  boatman. 

"Avanti!" 

The  boat  slipped  away  and  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

Hermione  had  said  nothing.  Once  again — why,  she 
did  not  know — her  friend  had  made  her  feel  guilty. 

Andrea,  the  boatman,  still  paused.  Now  she  saw  him 
staring  into  her  face,  and  she  felt  like  a  woman  publicly 
deserted,  almost  humiliated. 

"Avanti,  Andrea!"  she  said. 

Her  voice  trembled  as  she  spoke. 

He  bent  to  his  oars  and  rowed  on. 

And  man  is  the  nomad,  and  the  camel — and  the 
desert. 

Yes,  she  carried  the  desert  within  her,  and  she  was 
wandering  in  it  alone.  She  saw  herself,  a  poor,  starved, 
shrinking  figure,  travelling  through  a  vast,  a  burning,  a 
waterless  expanse,  with  an  iron  sky  above  her,  a  brazen 
land  beneath.  She  was  in  rags,  barefoot,  like  the  poor- 
est nomad  of  them  all. 

But  even  the  poorest  nomad  carries  something. 

Against  her  breast,  to  her  heart,  she  clasped — a  mem- 
ory— the  sacred  memory  of  him  who  had  loved  her,  who 
had  taken  her  to  be  his,  who  had  given  her  himself. 


CHAPTER    XX 

THAT  night  when  Hermione  drew  near  to  the  island 
she  saw  the  Saint's  light  shining,  and  remembered  how, 
in  the  storm,  she  had  longed  for  it — how,  when  she  had 
seen  it  above  the  roaring  sea,  she  had  felt  that  it  was  a 
good  omen.  To-night  it  meant  nothing  to  her.  It  was 
just  a  lamp  lit,  as  a  lamp  might  be  lit  in  a  street,  to  give 
illumination  in  darkness  to  any  one  who  passed.  She 
wondered  why  she  had  thought  of  it  so  strangely. 

Gaspare  met  her  at  the  landing.  She  noticed  at  once 
a  suppressed  excitement  in  his  manner.  He  looked  at 
Andrea  keenly  and  suspiciously. 

"How  late  you  are,  Signora!" 

He  put  out  his  strong  arm  to  help  her  to  the  land. 

"Am  I,  Gaspare?  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am — you  ought 
all  to  be  in  bed." 

"I  should  not  go  to  bed  while  you  were  out,  Signora." 

Again  she  linked  Gaspare  with  her  memory,  saw  the 
nomad  not  quite  alone  on  the  journey. 

"I  know." 

"Have  you  been  to  Naples,  Signora?" 

"No— only  to—" 

"To  Mergellina?" 

He  interrupted  her  almost  sharply. 

"No,  to  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio.  Pay  the  boatman  this, 
Gaspare.  Good -night,  Andrea." 

"Good -night,  Signora." 

Gaspare  handed  the  man  his  money,  and  at  once  the 
boat  set  out  on  its  return  to  Posilipo. 

294 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Hermione  stood  at  the  water's  edge  watching  its  de- 
parture. It  passed  below  the  Saint,  and  the  gleam  of  his 
light  fell  upon  it  for  a  moment.  In  the  gleam  the  black 
figure  of  Andrea  was  visible  stooping  to  the  water.  He 
was  making  the  fishermen's  sign  of  the  Cross.  The  cross 
on  Peppina's  face — was  it  an  enemy  of  the  Cross  that 
carried  with  it  San  Francesco's  blessing?  Vere's  imag- 
ination! She  turned  to  go  up  to  the  house. 

"Is  the  Signorina  in  bed  yet,  Gaspare?" 

"No,  Signora." 

' '  Where  is  she  ?     Still  out  ? " 

"Si,  Signora." 

"Did  she  think  I  was  lost?" 

"Signora,  the  Signorina  is  on  the  cliff  with  RufEo." 

"With  Ruffo?" 

They  were  going  up  the  steps. 

"Si,  Signora.     We  have  all  been  together." 

Hermione  guessed  that  Gaspare  had  been  playing 
chaperon,  and  loved  him  for  it. 

"And  you  heard  the  boat  coming  from  the  cliff?" 

"I  saw  it  pass  under  the  Saint's  light,  Signora.  I  did 
not  hear  it." 

"Well,  but  it  might  have  been  a  fisherman's  boat." 

"Si,  Signora.     And  it  might  have  been  your  boat." 

The  logic  of  this  faithful  watcher  was  unanswerable. 
They  came  up  to  the  house. 

"I  think  I'll  go  and  see  Ruffo,"  said  Hermione. 

She  was  close  to  the  door  of  the  house,  Gaspare  stood  im- 
mediately before  her.  He  did  not  move  now,  but  he  said: 

"  I  can  go  and  tell  the  Signorina  you  are  here,  Signora, 
She  will  come  at  once." 

Again  Hermione  noticed  a  curious,  almost  dogged, 
excitement  in  his  manner.  It  recalled  to  her  a  night  of 
years  ago  when  he  had  stood  on  a  terrace  beside  her  in 
the  darkness  and  had  said:  "I  will  go  down  to  the  sea. 
Signora,  let  me  go  down  to  the  sea!" 

295 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  Gaspare?"  she 
said,  quickly.  "Nothing  wrong?" 

"Signora,  of  course  not!     What  should  there  be?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"I  will  fetch  the  Signorina." 

On  that  night,  years  ago,  she  had  battled  with  Gas- 
pare. He  had  been  forced  to  yield  to  her.  Now  she 
yielded  to  him. 

"Very  well,"  she  answered.  "Go  and  tell  the  Signo- 
rina I  am  here." 

She  turned  and  went  into  the  house  and  up  to  the 
sitting-room.  Vere  did  not  come  immediately.  To  her 
mother  it  seemed  as  if  she  was  a  very  long  time  coming ; 
but  at  last  her  light  step  fell  on  the  stairs,  and  she  en- 
tered quickly. 

"Madre!    How  late  you  are!     Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"Am  I  late?  I  dined  at  the  little  restaurant  at  the 
top  of  the  hill  where  the  tram  passes." 

"There?     But  you  haven't  been  there  all  this  time?" 

"No.  Afterwards  I  took  the  tram  to  Posilipo  and 
came  home  by  boat.  And  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Oh,  all  sorts  of  things — what  I  always  do.  Just  now 
I've  been  with  Ruffo." 

"Gaspare  told  me  he  was  here." 

"Yes.     We've  been  having  a  talk." 

Hermione  waited  for  Vere  to  say  something  more, 
but  she  was  silent.  She  stood  near  the  window  looking 
out,  and  the  expression  on  her  face  had  become  rather 
vague,  as  if  her  mind  had  gone  on  a.  journey. 

"  Well,"  said  the  mother  at  last,  "and  what  does  Ruffo 
say  for  himself,  Vere?" 

"Ruffo?     Oh,  I  don't  know." 

She  paused,  then  added: 

' '  I  think  he  has  rather  a  hard  time,  do  you  know,  Madre  ?" 

Hermione  had  taken  off  her  hat.  She  laid  it  on  a 
table  and  sat  down.  She  was  feeling  tired. 

296 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"But  generally  he  looks  so  gay,  so  strong.  Don't 
vou  remember  that  first  day  you  saw  him?" 

"Ah— then!" 

"Of  course,  when  he  had  fever — " 

"No,  it  isn't  that.  Any  one  might  be  ill.  I  think  he 
has  things  at  home  to  make  him  unhappy  sometimes." 

"Has  he  been  telling  you  so?" 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  complain,"  Verc  said,  quickly,  and 
almost  with  a  touch  of  heat.  "A  boy  like  that  couldn't 
whine,  you  know,  Madre.  But  one  can  understand 
things  without  hearing  them  said.  There  is  some  trouble. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  exactly.  But  I  think  his  step- 
father— his  Patrigno,  as  he  calls  him — must  have  got 
into  some  bother,  or  done  something  horrible.  Ruffo 
seemed  to  want  to  tell  me,  and  yet  not  to  want  to  tell 
me.  And,  of  course,  I  couldn't  ask.  I  think  he'll  tell 
me  to-morrow,  perhaps." 

"Is  he  coming  here  to-morrow?" 

"Oh,  in  summer  I  think  he  comes  nearly  every  night." 

"But  you  haven't  said  anything  about  him  just 
lately." 

"No.  Because  he  hasn't  landed  till  to-night  since 
the  night  of  the  storm." 

"I  wonder  why?"  said  Hermione. 

She  was  interested;  but  she  still  felt  tired,  and  the 
fatigue  crept  into  her  voice. 

"So  do  I,"  Vere  said.  "He  had  a  reason,  I'm  sure. 
You're  tired,  Madre,  so  I'll  go  to  bed.  Good-night." 

She  came  to  her  mother  and  kissed  her.  Moved  by  a 
sudden  overwhelming  impulse  of  tenderness,  and  need 
of  tenderness,  Hermione  put  her  arms  round  the  child's 
slim  body.  But  even  as  she  did  so  she  remembered 
Vere's  secret,  shared  with  Emile  and  not  with  her.  She 
could  not  abruptly  loose  her  arms  without  surprising  her 
child.  But  they  seemed  to  her  to  stiffen,  against  her 
will,  and  her  embrace  was  surely  mechanical.  She  won- 

297 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

dered  if  Vere  noticed  this,  but  she  did  not  look  into  her 
eyes  to  see. 

"Good-night,  Vere." 

"Good -night." 

Vere  was  at  the  door  when  Hermione  remembered  her 
two  meetings  of  that  evening. 

"By-the-way,"  she  said,  "I  met  the  Marchesino  to- 
night. He  was  at  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio." 

"Was  he?" 

"And  afterwards  on  the  sea  I  met  Emile." 

"Monsieur  Emile!     Then  he  isn't  quite  dead!" 

"There  was  a  sound  almost  of  irritation  in  Vere's 
voice. 

"He  has  been  working  very  hard." 

"Oh,  I  see." 

Her  voice  had  softened. 

"The  Marchesino  is  coming  here  to  lunch  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  Madre!" 

"Does  he  bore  you?  I  had  to  ask  him  to  something 
after  accepting  his  dinner,  Vere." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course.     The  Marchese  is  all  right." 

She  stood  by  the  door  with  her  bright,  expressive  eyes 
fixed  on  her  mother.  Her  dark  hair  had  been  a  little 
roughened  by  the  breeze  from  Ischia,  and  stuck  up  just 
above  the  forehead,  giving  to  her  face  an  odd,  almost  a 
boyish  look. 

"What  is  it,  Vere?" 

"And  when  is  Monsieur  Emile  coming?  Didn't  he 
say?" 

"No.  He  suggested  to-morrow,  but  when  I  told  him 
the  Marchese  was  coming  he  said  he  wouldn't." 

As  Hermione  said  this  she  looked  very  steadily  at  her 
child.  Vere's  eyes  did  not  fall,  but  met  hers  simply, 
fearlessly,  yet  not  quite  childishly. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  she  said.  "To  tell  the  truth, 
Madre,  I  can't  see  how  a  man  like  the  Marchesino  could 

298 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

interest  a  man  like  Monsieur  Emile — at  any  rate,  for 
long.  Well — "  She  gave  a  little  sigh,  throwing  up  her 
pretty  chin.  "A  letto  si  va!" 

And  she  vanished. 

When  she  had  gone  Hermione  thought  she  too  would 
go  to  bed.  She  was  very  tired.  She  ought  to  go.  Yet 
now  she  suddenly  felt  reluctant  to  go,  and  as  if  the  doings 
of  the  day  for  her  were  not  yet  over.  And,  besides,  she 
was  not  going  to  sleep  well.  That  was  certain.  The 
dry,  the  almost  sandy  sensation  of  insomnia  was  upon 
her.  What  was  the  matter  with  Gaspare  to-night  ?  Per- 
haps he  had  had  a  quarrel  with  some  one  at  Mergellina. 
He  had  a  strong  temper  as  well  as  a  loyal  heart. 

Hermione  went  to  a  window.  The  breeze  from  Ischia 
touched  her.  She  opened  her  lips,  shut  her  eyes,  drank 
it  in.  It  would  be  delicious  to  spend  the  whole  night 
upon  the  sea,  like  Ruffo.  Had  he  gone  yet  ?  or  was  he 
in  the  boat  asleep,  perhaps  in  the  Saint's  Pool?  How 
interested  Vere  was  in  all  the  doings  of  that  boy — how 
innocently,  charmingly  interested! 

Hermione  stood  by  the  window  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes, then  went  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  to  the 
front  door  of  the  house.  It  was  already  locked.  Yet 
Gaspare  had  not  come  up  to  say  good-night  to  her.  And 
he  always  did  that  before  he  went  to  bed.  She  unlocked 
the  door,  went  out,  shut  it  behind  her,  and  stood  still. 

How  strangely  beautiful  and  touching  the  faint  noise 
of  the  sea  round  the  island  was  at  night,  atid  how  full  of 
meaning  not  quite  to  be  divined!  It  came  upon  her 
heart  like  the  whisper  of  a  world  trying  to  tell  its  secret 
to  the  darkness.  What  depths,  what  subtleties,  what 
unfailing  revelations  of  beauty,  and  surely,  too,  of  love, 
there  were  in  Nature!  And  yet  in  Nature  what  terrible 
indifference  there  was:  a  powerful,  an  almost  terrific 
inattention,  like  that  of  the  sphinx  that  gazes  at  what 
men  cannot  see.  Hermione  moved  away  from  the  house. 

ao  299 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  walked  to  the  brow  of  the  island  and  sat  down  on 
the  seat  that  Vere  was  fond  of.  Presently  she  would  go 
to  the  bridge  and  look  over  into  the  Pool  and  listen  for 
the  voices  of  fishermen.  She  sat  there  for  some  time 
gaining  a  certain  peace,  losing  something  of  her  feeling 
of  weary  excitement  and  desolation  under  the  stars.  At 
last  she  thought  that  sleep  might  come  if  she  went  to 
bed.  But  before  doing  so  she  made  her  way  to  the  bridge 
and  leaned  on  the  rail,  looking  down  into  the  Pool. 

It  was  very  dark,  but  she  saw  the  shadowy  shape  of  a 
fishing -boat  lying  close  to  the  rock.  She  stood  and 
watched  it,  and  presently  she  lost  herself  in  a  thicket  of 
night  thoughts,  and  forgot  where  she  was  and  why  she 
had  come  there.  She  was  recalled  by  hearing  a  very 
faint  voice  singing,  scarcely  more  than  humming,  be- 
neath her. 

"Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1'  Estate 

Mi  fugge  il  sonno  accanto  a  la  marina: 
Mi  destan  le  dolcissime  serate 

Gil  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 

It  was  the  same  song  that  Artois  had  heard  that  day 
as  he  leaned  on  the  balcony  of  the  Ristorante  della  Stella. 
But  this  singer  of  it  sang  the  Italian  words,  and  not  the 
dialetto.  The  song  that  wins  the  prize  at  the  Piedigrotta 
Festival  is  on  the  lips  of  every  one  in  Naples.  In  houses, 
in  streets,  in  the  harbor,  in  every  piazza,  and  upon  the 
sea  it  is  heard  incessantly. 

And  now  Ruffo  was  singing  it  softly  and  rather  proud- 
ly in  the  Italian,  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  dark 
figure  he  saw  above  him.  He  was  not  certain  who  it  was, 
but  he  thought  it  was  the  mother  of  the  Signorina,  and 
— he  did  not  exactly  know  why — he  wished  her  to  find 
out  that  he  was  there,  squatting  on  the  dry  rock  with 
his  back  against  the  cliff  wall.  The  ladies  of  the  Casa 
del  Mare  had  been  very  kind  to  him,  and  to-night  he 

300 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

was  not  very  happy,  and  vaguely  he  longed  for  sym- 
pathy. 

Hermione  listened  to  the  pretty,  tripping  words,  the 
happy,  youthful  words.  And  Ruffo  sang  them  again, 
still  very  softly. 

"Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1"  Estate — " 

And  the  poor  nomad  wandering  in  the  desert?  But 
she  had  known  the  rapture  of  youth,  the  sweet  white 
moons  of  summer  in  the  South.  She  had  known  them 
long  ago  for  a  little  while,  and  therefore  she  knew  them 
while  she  lived.  A  woman's  heart  is  tenacious,  and 
wide  as  the  world,  when  it  contains  that  world  which  is 
the  memory  of  something  perfect  that  gave  it  satis- 
faction. 

"Mi  destan  le  dolcissime  serate 
Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 

Dear,  happy,  lovable  youth  that  can  sing  to  itself  like 
that  in  the  deep  night!  Like  that  once  Maurice,  her 
sacred  possession  of  youth,  sang.  She  felt  a  rush  of 
tenderness  for  Ruffo,  just  because  he  was  so  young,  and 
sang — and  brought  back  to  her  the  piercing  truth  of  the 
everlasting  renewal  that  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the 
everlasting  passing  away. 

"Ruffo!— Ruffo!" 

Almost  as  Vere  had  once  called  "Pescator!"  she  called. 
And  as  Ruffo  had  once  come  running  up  to  Vere  he  came 
now  to  Vere's  mother. 

' '  Good-evening,  Ruffo. ' ' 

' '  Good-evening,  Signora. ' ' 

She  was  looking  at  the  boy  as  at  a  mystery  which  yet 
she  could  understand.  And  he  looked  at  her  simply, 
with  a  sort  of  fearless  gentleness,  and  readiness  to  receive 
the  kindness  which  he  knew  dwelt  in  her  for  him  to  take. 

"Are  you  better?" 

301 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Si,  Signora,  much  better.  The  fever  has  gone.  I 
am  strong,  you  know." 

"You  are  so  young." 

She  could  not  help  saying  it,  and  her  eyes  were  tender 
just  then. 

"3i,  Signora,  I  am  very  young." 

His  simple  voice  almost  made  her  laugh,  stirred  in  her 
that  sweet  humor  which  has  its  dwelling  at  the  core  of 
the  heart. 

"Young  and  happy,"  she  said. 

And  as  she  said  it  she  remembered  Vere's  words  that 
evening:  "I  think  he  has  rather  a  hard  time." 

"At  least,  I  hope  you  are  happy,  RuflEo,"  she  added. 

"Si,  Signora." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  not  sure  which  he  meant, 
whether  his  assent  was  to  her  hope  or  to  the  fact  of  his 
happiness.  She  wondered  which  it  was. 

"Young  people  ought  to  be  happy,"  she  said. 

"Ought  they,  Signora?" 

"You  like  your  life,  don't  you?     You  like  the  sea?" 

"Si,  Signora.  I  could  not  live  away  from  the  sea. 
If  I  could  not  see  the  sea  every  day  I  don't  know  what 
I  should  do." 

"I  love  it,  too." 

"The  Signorina  loves  the  sea." 

He  had  ignored  her  love  for  it  and  seized  on  Vere's. 
She  thought  that  was  very  characteristic  of  his  youth. 

"Yes.  She  loves  being  here.  You  talked  to  her  to- 
night, didn't  you?" 

"Si,  Signora." 

"And  to  Gaspare?" 

"Si,  Signora.  And  this  afternoon,  too.  Gaspare  was 
at  Mergellina  this  afternoon." 

"And  you  met  there,  did  you?" 

"Si,  Signora.  I  had  been  with  my  mamma,  and  when 
T  left  my  mamma — poveretta — I  met  Gaspare." 

302 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"I  hope  your  mother  is  well." 

"  Signora,  she  is  not  very  well  just  now.  She  is  a  little 
sad  just  now." 

Hermione  felt  that  the  boy  had  some  trouble  which, 
perhaps,  he  would  like  to  tell  her.  Perhaps  some  in- 
stinct made  him  know  that  she  felt  tender  towards  him, 
very  tender  that  night. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  she  said — "very  sorry." 

"Si,  Signora.     There  is  trouble  in  our  house." 

"What  is  it,  Ruffo?" 

The  boy  hesitated  to  answer.  He  moved  his  bare  feet 
on  the  bridge  and  looked  down  towards  the  boat.  Her- 
mione did  not  press  him,  said  nothing. 

"Signora,"  Ruffo  said,  at  last,  coming  to  a  decision, 
"my  Patrigno  is  not  a  good  man.  He  makes  my  mam- 
ma jealous.  He  goes  after  others." 

It  was  the  old  story  of  the  South,  then!  Hermione 
knew  something  of  the  persistent  infidelities  of  Nea- 
politan men.  Poor  women  who  had  to  suffer  them! 

"  I  am  sorry  for  your  mother,"  she  said,  gently.  "That 
must  be  very  hard." 

"Si,  Signora,  it  is  hard.  My  mamma  was  very  un- 
happy to-day.  She  put  her  head  on  the  table,  and  she 
cried.  But  that  was  because  my  Patrigno  is  put  in  prison. " 

" In  prison!     What  has  he  done ?" 

Ruffo  looked  at  her,  and  she  saw  that  the  simple  ex- 
pression had  gone  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Signora,  I  thought  perhaps  you  knew." 

"I?     But  I  have  never  seen  your  step-father." 

"No,  Signora.  But — but  you  have  that  girl  here  in 
your  house." 

"What  girl?" 

Suddenly,  almost  while  she  was  speaking,  Hermione 
understood. 

"Peppina!"  she  said.  "It  was  your  Patrigno  who 
wounded  Peppina?" 

303 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Si,  Signora." 

There  was  a  silence  between  them.  Then  Hermione 
said,  gently: 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  your  poor  mother,  Ruffo — very 
sorry.  Tell  me,  can  she  manage?  About  money,  I 
mean  ?" 

"It  was  not  so  much  the  money  she  was  crying  about, 
Signora.  But,  of  course,  while  Patrigno  is  in  prison  he 
cannot  earn  money  for  her.  I  shall  give  her  my  money. 
But  my  mamma  does  not  like  all  the  neighbors  knowing 
about  that  girl.  It  is  a  shame  for  her." 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is.     It  is  very  hard." 

She  thought  a  moment.     Then  she  said: 

"  It  must  be  horrible — horrible !" 

She  spoke  with  all  the  vehemence  of  her  nature.  Again, 
as  long  ago,  when  she  knelt  before  a  mountain  shrine  in 
the  night,  she  had  put  herself  imaginatively  in  the  place 
of  a  woman,  this  time  in  the  place  of  Ruffo's  mother. 
She  had  realized  how  she  would  have  felt  if  her  husband, 
her  "man,"  had  ever  been  faithless  to  her. 

Ruffo  looked  at  her  almost  in  surprise. 

"I  wish  I  could  see  your  poor  mother,  Ruffo,"  she 
said.  "I  would  go  to  see  her,  only — well,  you  see,  I 
have  Peppina  here,  and — " 

She  broke  off.  Perhaps  the  boy  would  not  understand 
what  she  considered  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation. 
She  did  not  quite  know  how  these  people  regarded  cer- 
tain things. 

"Wait  here  a  moment,  Ruffo,"  she  said.  "I  am  going 
to  give  you  something  for  your  mother.  I  won't  be  a 
moment." 

"Grazie,  Signora." 

Hermione  went  away  to  the  house.  The  perfect  nat- 
uralness and  simplicity  of  the  boy  appealed  to  her.  She 
was  pleased,  too,  that  he  had  not  told  all  this  to  Vere. 
It  showed  a  true  feeling  of  delicacy.  And  she  was  sure 

3°4 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

he  was  a  good  son.  She  went  up  to  her  room,  got  two 
ten-lira  notes,  and  went  quickly  back  to  Ruffo,  who  was 
standing  upon  the  bridge. 

"There,  Ruffo,"  she  said,  giving  them  to  him.  "These 
are  for  your  mother." 

The  boy's  brown  face  flushed,  and  into  his  eyes  there 
came  an  expression  of  almost  melting  gentleness. 

"Oh,  Signora!"  he  said. 

And  there  was  a  note  of  protest  in  his  voice. 

"Take  them  to  her,  Ruffo.  And — and  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  something.  Will  you?" 

"Si,  Signora.     I  will  do  anything — anything  for  you." 

Hermione  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Be  very,  very  kind  to  your  poor  mother,  Ruffo." 

"Signora,  I  always  am  good  for  my  poor  mamma." 

He  spoke  with  warm  eagerness. 

"I  am  sure  you  are.  But  just  now,  when  she  is  sad, 
be  very  good  to  her." 

"Si,  Signora." 

She  took  her  hand  from  the  boy's  shoulder.  He  bent 
to  kiss  her  hand,  and  again,  as  he  was  lifting  up  his 
head,  she  saw  that  melting  look  in  his  eyes.  This 
time  it  was  unmingled  with  amazement,  and  it  startled 
her. 

"Oh,  Ruffo!"  she  said,  and  stopped,  staring  at  him  in 
the  darkness. 

"Signora!     What  is  it?     What  have  you?" 

"Nothing.     Good-night,  Ruffo." 

"Good-night,  Signora." 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  ran  down  to  the  boat.  Her- 
mione  leaned  over  the  railing,  bending  down  to  see  the 
boy  reappear  below.  When  he  came  he  looked  like  a 
shadow.  From  this  shadow  there  rose  a  voice  singing 
very  softly. 

"Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1*  Estate — " 
305 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  shadow  went  over  to  the  boat,  and  the  voice  died 
away. 

"Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 

Hermione  still  was  bending  down.  And  she  formed 
the  last  words  with  lips  that  trembled  a  little. 

"Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 

Then  she  said:  "Maurice — Maurice!" 

And  then  she  stood  trembling. 

Yes,  it  was  Maurice  whom  she  had  seen  again  for  an 
instant  in  the  melting  look  of  Ruffo's  face.  She  felt 
frightened  in  the  dark.  Maurice — when  he  kissed  her 
for  the  last  time,  had  looked  at  her  like  that.  It  could 
not  be  fancy.  It  was  not. 

Was  this  the  very  first  time  she  had  noticed  in  Ruffo 
a  likeness  to  her  dead  husband  ?  She  asked  herself  if  it 
was.  Yes.  She  had  never — or  had  there  been  some- 
thing? Not  in  the  face,  perhaps.  But — the  voice? 
Ruffo's  singing?  His  attitude  as  he  stood  up  in  the 
boat?  Had  there  not  been  something?  She  remem- 
bered her  conversation  with  Artois  in  the  cave.  She  had 
said  to  him  that — she  did  not  know  why — the  boy, 
Ruffo,  had  made  her  feel,  had  stirred  up  within  her 
slumbering  desires,  slumbering  yearnings. 

"I  have  heard  a  hundred  boys  sing  on  the  Bay — and 
just  this  one  touches  some  chord,  and  all  the  strings  of 
my  soul  quiver." 

She  had  said  that. 

Then  there  was  something  in  the  boy,  something  not 
merely  fleeting  like  that  look  of  gentleness — something 
permanent,  subtle,  that  resembled  Maurice. 

Now  she  no  longer  felt  frightened,  but  she  had  a  pas- 
sionate wish  to  go  down  to  the  boat,  to  see  Ruffo  again., 
to  be  with  him  again,  now  that  she  was  awake  to  this 

306 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

strange,  and  perhaps  only  faint,  imitation  by  another  of 
the  one  whom  she  had  lost.  No — not  imitation;  this 
fragmentary  reproduction  of  some  characteristic,  some — 

She  lifted  herself  up  from  the  railing.  And  now  she 
knew  that  her  eyes  were  wet.  She  wiped  them  with  her 
handkerchief,  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  went  back  to  the 
house.  She  felt  for  the  handle  of  the  door,  and,  when  she 
found  it,  opened  the  door,  went  in,  and  shut  it  rather 
heavily,  then  locked  it.  As  she  bent  down  to  push  home 
the  bolt  at  the  bottom  a  voice  called  out: 

"Who's  there?" 

She  was  startled  and  turned  quickly. 

"Gaspare!" 

He  stood  before  her  half  dressed,  with  his  hair  over 
his  eyes,  and  a  revolver  in  his  hand. 

"Signora!     It  is  you!" 

"Si.  What  did  you  think?  That  it  was  a  rob- 
ber?" 

Gaspare  looked  at  her  almost  sternly,  went  to  the 
door,  bent  down  and  bolted  it,  then  he  said: 

"Signora,  I  heard  a  noise  in  the  house  a  few  minuses 
ago.  I  listened,  but  I  heard  nothing  more.  Still,  I 
thought  it  best  to  get  up.  I  had  just  put  on  my  clothes 
when  again  I  heard  a  noise  at  the  door.  I  myself  had 
locked  it  for  the  night.  What  should  I  think?" 

"I  was  outside.  I  came  back  for  something.  That 
was  what  you  heard.  Then  I  went  out  again." 

"Si." 

He  stood  there  staring  at  her  in  a  way  that  seemed, 
she  fancied,  to  rebuke  her.  She  knew  that  he  wished  to 
know  why  she  had  gone  out  so  late,  returned  to  the 
house,  then  gone  out  once  more. 

"Come  up-stairs  for  a  minute,  Gaspare,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  looked  less  stern,  but  still  unlike  himself. 

"Si,  Signora.     Shall  I  put  on  my  jacket?" 

307 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"No,  no,  never  mind.     Come  like  that." 

She  went  up-stairs,  treading  softly,  lest  she  might 
disturb  Vere.  He  followed.  When  they  were  in  her 
sitting-room  she  said: 

"Gaspare,  why  did  you  go  to  bed  without  coming  to 
say  good-night  to  me?" 

He  looked  rather  confused. 

"Did  I  forget,  Signora?     I  was  tired.     Forgive  me." 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  forgot.  But  you  never 
came." 

As  Hermione  spoke,  suddenly  she  felt  as  if  Gaspare, 
too,  were  going,  perhaps,  to  drift  from  her.  She  looked 
at  him  with  an  almost  sharp  intensity  which  hardened 
her  whole  face.  Was  he,  too,  being  insincere  with  her, 
he  whom  she  trusted  so  implicitly? 

"Did  you  forget,  Gaspare?"  she  said. 

"Signora,"  he  repeated,  with  a  certain,  almost  ugly 
doggedness,  "I  was  tired.  Forgive  me." 

She  felt  sure  that  he  had  chosen  deliberately  not  to 
come  to  her  for  the  evening  salutation.  It  was  a  trifle, 
yet  to-night  it  hurt  her.  For  a  moment  she  was  silent, 
and  he  was  silent,  looking  down  at  the  floor.  Then  she 
opened  her  lips  to  dismiss  him.  She  intended  to  say  a 
curt  "Good-night";  but — no — she  could  not  let  Gas- 
pare retreat  from  her  behind  impenetrable  walls  of  ob- 
stinate reserve.  And  she  did  know  his  nature  through 
and  through.  If  he  was  odd  to-night,  unlike  himself, 
there  was  some  reason  for  it ;  and  it  could  not  be  a  rea- 
son that,  known  to  her,  would  make  her  think  badly  of 
him.  She  was  certain  of  that. 

"Never  mind,  Gaspare,"  she  said,  gently.  "But  I 
like  you  to  come  and  say  good-night  to  me.  I  am  ac- 
customed to  that,  and  I  miss  it  if  you  don't  come." 

"Si,  Signora,"  he  said,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

Tie  turned  a  little  away  from  her,  and  made  a  small 
noise  with  his  nose  as  if  he  had  a  cold. 

308 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Gaspare,"  she  said,  with  an  impulse  to  be  frank,  "I 
saw  Ruffo  to-night." 

He  turned  round  quickly.  She  saw  moisture  in  his 
eyes,  but  they  were  shining  almost  fiercely. 

"He  told  me  something  about  his  Patrigno.  Did  you 
know  it?" 

"His  Patrigno  and  Peppina?" 

Hermione  nodded. 

"Si  Signora;   Ruffo  told  me." 

"I  gave  the  boy  something  for  his  mother." 

"His  mother— why?" 

There  was  quick  suspicion  in  Gaspare's  voice. 

"Poor  woman !  Because  of  all  this  trouble.  Her  hus- 
band is  in  prison." 

"Lo  so.  But  he  will  soon  be  out  again.  He  is  'pro- 
tected.'" 

"Who  protects  him?" 

But  Gaspare  evaded  the  answer,  and  substituted  some- 
thing that  was  almost  a  rebuke. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  bluntly,  "if  I  were  you  I  would 
not  have  anything  to  do  with  these  people.  Ruffo's 
Patrigno  is  a  bad  man.  Better  leave  them  alone." 

"But,  Ruffo?" 

"Signora?" 

"You  like  him,  don't  you?" 

"Si,  Signora.     There  is  no  harm  in  him." 

"And  the  poor  mother?" 

"I  am  not  friends  with  his  mother,  Signora.  I  do 
not  want  to  be." 

Hermione  was  surprised  by  his  harshnessl 

"But  why  not?" 

"There  are  people  at  Mergellina  who  are  bad  people," 
he  said.  "We  are  not  Neapolitan.  We  had  better  keep 
to  ourselves.  You  have  too  much  heart,  Signora,  a  great 
deal  too  much  heart,  and  you  do  not  always  know  what 
people  are." 

3°9 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  not  to  have  given  Ruffo  that 
money  for  his  mother?"  Hermione  asked,  almost  meekly. 

"Si,  Signora.  It  is  not  for  you  to  give  his  mother 
money.  It  is  not  for  you." 

"Well,  Gaspare,  it's  done  now." 

"Si,  it's  done  now." 

"You  don't  think  Ruffo  bad,  do  you?" 

After  a  pause,  Gaspare  answered: 

"No,  Signora.     Ruffo  is  not  bad." 

Hermione  hesitated.  She  wanted  to  ask  Gaspare 
something,  but  she  was  not  sure  that  the  opportunity 
was  a  good  one.  He  was  odd  to-night.  His  temper 
had  surely  been  upset.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to 
wait.  She  decided  not  to  speak  of  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"Well,  Gaspare,  good-night,"  she  said. 

' '  Good-night ,  Signora. ' ' 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"You  see,  after  all,  you  have  had  to  say  good-night 
to  me!" 

"Signora,"  he  answered,  earnestly,  "even  if  I  do  not 
come  to  say  good-night  to  you  always,  I  shall  stay  with 
you  till  death." 

Again  he  made  the  little  noise  with  his  nose,  as  he 
turned  away  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

That  night,  ere  she  got  into  bed,  Hermione  called  down 
on  that  faithful  watch-dog's  dark  head  a  blessing,  the 
best  that  heaven  contained  for  him.  Then  she  put  out 
the  light,  and  lay  awake  so  long  that  when  a  boat  came 
round  the  cliff  from  the  Saint's  Pool  to  the  open  sea,  in 
the  hour  before  the  dawn,  she  heard  the  soft  splash  of 
the  oars  in  the  water  and  the  sound  of  a  boy's  voice 
singing. 

"Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1'  Estate 

Mi  fugge  il  sonno  accanto  a  la  marina: 
Mi  destan  le  dolcissime  serate 

Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 
310 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  lifted  herself  up  on  her  pillow  and  listened — lis- 
tened until  across  the  sea,  going  towards  the  dawn,  the 
song  was  lost. 

"Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 

When  the  voice  was  near,  had  not  Maurice  seemed 
near  to  her  ?  And  when  it  died  away,  did  not  he  fade 
with  it — fade  until  the  Ionian  waters  took  him  ? 

She  sat  up  in  the  darkness  until  long  after  the  song 
was  hushed.  But  she  heard  it  still  in  the  whisper  of  the 
sea. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

THE  Marchesino  had  really  been  unwell,  as  he  had  told 
Hermione.  The  Panacci  disposition,  of  which  he  had 
once  spoken  to  Artois,  was  certainly  not  a  calm  one,  and 
Isidore  was,  perhaps,  the  most  excitable  member  of  an 
abundantly  excitable  family.  Although  changeable,  he 
was  vehement.  He  knew  not  the  meaning  of  the  word 
patience,  and  had  always  been  accustomed  to  get  what 
he  wanted  exactly  when  he  wanted  it.  Delay  in  the 
gratification  of  his  desires,  opposition  to  his  demands, 
rendered  him  as  indignant  as  if  he  were  a  spoiled  child 
unable  to  understand  the  fixed  position  and  function  of 
the  moon.  And  since  the  night  of  his  vain  singing  along 
the  shore  to  Nisida  he  had  been  ill  with  fever,  brought 
on  by  jealousy  and  disappointment,  brought  on  partly 
also  by  the  busy  workings  of  a  heated  imagination  which 
painted  his  friend  Emilio  in  colors  of  inky  black. 

The  Marchesino  had  not  the  faintest  doubt  that  Artois 
was  in  love  with  Vere.  He  believed  this  not  from  any 
evidence  of  his  eyes,  for,  even  now,  in  not  very  lucid 
moments,  he  could  not  recall  any  occasion  on  which  he 
had  seen  Emilio  paying  court  to  the  pretty  English  girl. 
But,  then,  he  had  only  seen  them  together  twice — on  the 
night  of  his  first  visit  to  the  island  and  on  the  night  of 
the  storm.  It  was  the  general  conduct  of  his  friend  that 
convinced  him,  conduct  in  connection  not  with  Vere, 
but  with  himself — apart  from  that  one  occasion  when 
Emilio  must  have  lain  hidden  with  Vere  among  the  shad- 
ows of  the  Grotto  of  Virgil.  He  had  been  deceived  by 

312 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Emilio.  He  had  thought  of  him  as  an  intellectual,  who 
was  also  a  bon  vivant  and  interested  in  Neapolitan  life. 
But  he  had  not  thought  of  him  as  a  libertine.  Yet  that 
was  what  he  certainly  was.  The  interview  with  Maria 
Fortunata  in  the  alley  beyond  the  Via  Roma  had  quite 
convinced  the  Marchesino,  He  had  no  objection  what- 
ever to  loose  conduct,  but  he  had  a  contempt  for  hypoc* 
risy  which  was  strong  and  genuine.  He  had  trusted 
Emilio.  Now  he  distrusted  him,  and  was  ready  to  see 
subtlety,  deceit,  and  guile  in  all  his  undertakings. 

Emilio  had  been  trying  to  play  with  him.  Emilio 
looked  upon  him  as  a  boy  who  knew  nothing  of  the  world. 
The  difference  in  their  respective  ages,  so  long  ignored 
by  him,  now  glared  perpetually  upon  the  Marchesino, 
even  roused  within  him  a  certain  condemnatory  some- 
thing that  was  almost  akin  to  moral  sense,  a  rare  enough 
bird  in  Naples.  He  said  to  himself  that  Emilio  was  a 
wicked  old  man,  "un  vecchio  briccone."  The  delights 
of  sin  were  the  prerogative  of  youth.  Abruptly  this  il- 
luminating fact  swam,  like  a  new  comet,  within  the 
ken  of  the  Marchesino.  He  towered  towards  heights  of 
virtuous  indignation.  As  he  lay  upon  his  fevered  pillow, 
drinking  a  tisane  prepared  by  his  anxious  mamma,  he 
understood  the  inner  beauty  of  settling  down — for  the 
old;  and  white-haired  age,  still  intent  upon  having  its 
fling,  appeared  to  him  so  truly  pitiable  and  disgusting 
that  he  could  almost  have  wept  for  Emilio  had  he  not 
feared  to  make  himself  more  feverish  by  such  an  act  of 
enlightened  friendship. 

And  this  sense  and  appreciation  of  the  true  morality, 
ravishing  in  its  utter  novelty  for  the  young  barbarian, 
was  cherished  by  the  Marchesino  until  he  began  almost 
to  swell  with  virtue,  and  to  start  on  stilts  to  heaven,  big 
with  the  message  that  wickedness  was  for  the  young  and 
must  not  be  meddled  with  by  any  one  over  thirty — the 
age  at  which,  till  now,  he  had  always  proposed  to  him- 

313 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

self  to  marry  some  rich  girl  and  settle  down  to  the  rigid 
asceticism  of  Neapolitan  wedded  life. 

And  as  the  Marchesino  had  lain  in  bed  tingling  with 
morality,  so  did  he  get  up  and  issue  forth  to  the  world, 
and  even  set  sail  upon  the  following  day  for  the  island. 
Morality  was  thick  upon  him,  as  upon  that  "briccone," 
Emilio,  something  else  was  thick.  About  mediaeval 
chivalry  he  knew  precisely  nothing.  Yet,  as  the  white 
wings  of  his  pretty  yacht  caught  the  light  breeze  of 
morning,  he  felt  like  a  most  virtuous  knight  sans  peur 
et  sans  reproche.  He  even  felt  like  a  steady -going  person 
with  a  mission. 

But  he  wished  he  thoroughly  understood  the  English 
nation.  Towards  the  English  he  felt  friendly,  as  do  most 
Italians;  but  he  knew  little  of  them,  except  that  they 
were  very  rich,  lived  in  a  perpetual  fog,  and  were  "un 
poco  pazzi."  But  the  question  was  how  mad — in  other 
words,  how  different  from  Neapolitans — they  were!  He 
wished  he  knew.  It  would  make  things  easier  for  him 
in  his  campaign  against  Emilio. 

Till  he  met  the  ladies  of  the  island  he  had  never  said 
a  hundred  words  to  any  English  person.  The  Neapolitan 
aristocracy  is  a  very  conservative  body,  and  by  no  means 
disposed  to  cosmopolitanism.  To  the  Panacci  Villa  at 
Capodimonte  came  only  Italians,  except  Emilio.  The 
Marchesino  had  inquired  of  Emilio  if  his  mother  should 
call  upon  the  Signora  Delarey,  but  Artois,  knowing  Her- 
mione's  hatred  of  social  formalities,  had  hastened  to  say 
that  it  was  not  necessary,  that  it  would  even  be  a  sur- 
prising departure  from  the  English  fashion  of  life,  which 
ordained  some  knowledge  of  each  other  by  the  ladies  of 
two  families,  or  at  least  some  formal  introduction  by  a 
mutual  woman  friend,  before  an  acquaintance  could  be 
properly  cemented.  Hitherto  the  Marchesino  had  felt 
quite  at  ease  with  his  new  friends.  But  hitherto  he  had 
been,  as  it  were,  merely  at  play  with  them.  The  inter- 

3U 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

lude  of  fever  had  changed  his  views  and  enlarged  his  con- 
sciousness. And  Emilio  was  no  longer  at  hand  to  be  ex- 
planatory if  desired. 

The  Marchesino  wished  very  much  that  he  thoroughly 
understood  the  inner  workings  of  the  minds  of  English 
ladies. 

How  mad  were  the  English?  How  mad  exactly,  for 
instance,  was  the  Signora  Delarey?  And  how  mad 
exactly  was  the  Signorina?  It  would  be  very  valuable 
to  know.  He  realized  that  his  accurate  knowledge  of 
Neapolitan  women,  hitherto  considered  by  him  as 
amply  sufficient  to  conduct  him  without  a  false  step 
through  all  the  intricacies  of  the  world  feminine,  might 
not  serve  him  perfectly  with  the  ladies  of  the  island. 
His  fever  had,  it  seemed,  struck  a  little  blow  on  his  self- 
confidence,  and  rendered  him  so  feeble  as  to  be  almost 
thoughtful. 

And  then,  what  exactly  did  he  want?  To  discomfit 
Emilio  utterly?  That,  of  course,  did  not  need  saying, 
even  to  himself.  And  afterwards?  There  were  two 
perpendicular  lines  above  his  eyebrows  as  the  boat  drew 
near  to  the  island. 

But  when  he  came  into  the  little  drawing-room,  where 
Hermione  was  waiting  to  receive  him,  he  looked  young 
and  debonair,  though  still  pale  from  his  recent  touch  of 
illness. 

Vere  was  secretly  irritated  by  his  coming.  Her  inter- 
view with  Peppina  had  opened  her  eyes  to  many  things, 
among  others  to  a  good  deal  that  was  latent  in  the  Mar- 
chesino. She  could  never  again  meet  him,  or  any  mar> 
of  his  type,  with  the  complete  and  masterful  simplicity 
of  ignorant  childhood  that  can  innocently  coquet  by  in- 
stinct, that  can  manage  by  heredity  from  Eve,  but  that 
does  not  understand  thoroughly,  either,  what  it  is  doing 
rjr  why  it  is  doing  it. 

Vere  was  not  in  the  mood  for  the  Marchesino. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  had  been  working,  and  she  had  been  dreaming, 
and  she  wanted  to  have  another  talk  with  Monsieur 
Emile.  Pretty,  delicate,  yet  strong-fibred  ambitions 
were  stirring  within  her,  and  the  curious  passion  to  use 
life  as  a  material,  but  not  all  of  life  that  presented  itself 
to  her.  With  the  desire  to  use  that  might  be  greedy 
irose  the  fastidious  prerogative  of  rejection. 

And  that  very  morning,  mentally,  Vere  had  rejected 
the  Marchesino  as  something  not  interesting  in  life,  some- 
thing that  was  only  lively,  like  the  very  shallow  stream. 
What  a  bore  it  would  be  having  to  entertain  him,  to  listen 
to  his  compliments,  to  avoid  his  glances,  to  pretend  to 
be  at  ease  with  him. 

For  Vere  felt  now  that  she  would  no  longer  be  quite 
at  ease  in  his  company. 

Through  her  Venetian  blinds  she  saw  his  boat  come 
into  the  Pool's  tranquillity,  and  in  a  leisurely  manner 
prepared  herself  to  go  down  and  greet  him. 

"But  Madre  can  have  him  for  a  little  first,"  she  said 
to  herself,  as  she  looked  into  the  glass  to  see  that  her 
hair  was  presentable.  "Madre  asked  him  to  come.  I 
didn't.  I  shall  have  nothing  to  say  to  him." 

She  had  quite  forgotten  her  eagerness  on  the  night  of 
the  storm,  when  she  heard  the  cry  of  the  siren  that  be- 
tokened his  approach.  Again  she  looked  in  the  glass 
and  gave  a  pat  to  her  hair.  And  just  as  she  was  doing 
it  she  thought  of  that  day  after  the  bathe,  when  Gaspare 
had  come  to  tell  her  that  Monsieur  Emile  was  waiting 
for  her.  She  had  run  down,  then,  just  as  she  was,  and 
now  — 

"Mamma  mia!  Am  I  getting  vain!"  she  said  to  her- 
self. 

And  she  turned  from  the  glass,  and  reluctantly  went 
to  meet  their  guest. 

She  had  said  to  herself  that  it  was  a  bore  having  the 
Marchesino  to  lunch,  that  he  was  uninteresting,  frivolous, 

316 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

empty-headed.  But  directly  she  set  eyes  upon  him,  as 
he  stood  in  the  drawing-room  by  her  mother,  she  felt  a 
change  in  him.  What  had  happened  to  him?  She 
could  not  tell.  But  she  was  conscious  that  he  seemed 
much  more  definite,  much  more  of  a  personage,  than  he 
had  seemed  to  her  before.  Even  his  face  looked  differ- 
ent, though  paler,  stronger.  She  was  aware  of  surprise. 

The  Marchesino,  too,  though  much  less  instinctively 
observant  than  Vere,  noted  a  change  in  her.  She  looked 
more  developed,  more  grown  up.  And  he  said  to  him- 
self: 

"When  I  told  Emile  she  was  a  woman  I  was  right." 

Their  meeting  was  rather  grave  and  formal,  even  a 
little  stiff.  The  Marchesino  paid  Vere  two  or  three  com- 
pliments, and  she  inquired  perfunctorily  after  his  health, 
and  expressed  regret  for  his  slight  illness. 

"It  was  only  a  chill,  Signorina.     It  was  nothing." 

"Perhaps  you  caught  it  that  night,"  Vere  said. 

"  What  night,  Signorina?  " 

Vere  had  been  thinking  of  the  night  when  he  sang  for 
her  in  vain.  Suddenly  remembering  how  she  and  Mon- 
sieur Emile  had  lain  in  hiding  and  slipped  surreptitiously 
home  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  she  flushed  and  said: 

"The  night  of  the  storm — you  got  wet,  didn't  you?" 

"But  that  was  long  ago,  Signorina,"  he  answered, 
looking  steadily  at  her,  with  an  expression  that  was 
searching  and  almost  hard. 

Had  he  guessed  her  inadvertence  ?  She  feared  so,  and 
felt  rather  guilty,  and  glad  when  Giulia  came  in  to  an- 
nounce that  lunch  was  ready. 

Hermione,  when  they  sat  down,  feeling  a  certain  con- 
straint, but  not  knowing  what  it  sprang  from,  came  to 
the  rescue  with  an  effort.  She  was  really  disinclined  for 
talk,  and  was  perpetually  remembering  that  the  presence 
of  the  Marchesino  had  prevented  Emile  from  coming  to 
spend  a  long  day.  But  she  remembered  also  her  guest's 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

hospitality  at  Frisio's,  and  her  social  instinct  defied  her 
natural  reluctance  to  be  lively.  She  said  to  herself  that 
she  was  rapidly  developing  into  a  fogey,  and  must  rigor- 
ously combat  the  grievous  tendency.  By  a  sheer  exer- 
tion of  will-power  she  drove  herself  into  a  different,  and 
conversational,  mood.  The  Marchesino  politely  respond- 
ed. He  was  perfectly  self-possessed,  but  he  was  not 
light-hearted.  The  unusual  effort  of  being  thoughtful 
had,  perhaps,  distressed  or  even  outraged  his  brain. 
And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  he  was  still  thinking — for 
him  quite  profoundly. 

However,  they  talked  about  risofto,  they  talked  about 
Vesuvius,  they  spoke  of  the  delights  of  summer  in  the 
South  and  of  the  advantages  of  living  on  an  island. 

"Does  it  not  bore  you,  Signora,  having  the  sea  all 
round?"  asked  the  Marchesino.  "Do  you  not  feel  in  a 
prison  and  that  you  cannot  escape?" 

"We  don't  want  to  escape,  do  we,  Madre?"  said  Vere, 
quickly,  before  Hermione  could  answer. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  the  island,  certainly,"  said  Her- 
mione. "Still,  of  course,  we  are  rather  isolated  here." 

She  was  thinking  of  what  she  had  said  to  Artois — that 
perhaps  her  instinct  to  shut  out  the  world  was  morbid, 
was  bad  for  Vere.  The  girl  at  once  caught  the  sound  of 
hesitation  in  her  mother's  voice. 

"Madre!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
that  you  are  tired  of  our  island  life  ?" 

"I  do  not  say  that.     And  you,  Vere?" 

"I  love  being  here.  I  dread  the  thought  of  the 
autumn." 

"In  what  month  do  you  go  away,  Signora?"  asked  the 
Marchesino. 

"By  the  end  of  October  we  shall  have  made  our  flitting, 
I  suppose." 

"You  will  come  in  to  Naples  for  the  winter?" 

Hermione  hesitated.     Then  she  said: 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  almost  think  I  shall  take  my  daughter  to  Rome. 
What  do  you  say,  Vere?" 

The  girl's  face  had  become  grave,  even  almost  troubled. 

"I  can't  look  forward  in  this  weather,"  she  said.  "I 
think  it's  almost  wicked  to.  Oh,  let  us  live  in  the  mo- 
ment, Madre,  and  pretend  it  will  be  always  summer,  and 
that  we  shall  always  be  living  in  our  Casa  del  Mare!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  eager  youth  in  her  voice  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  eyes  suddenly  shone.  The  Marchesino 
looked  at  her  with  an  admiration  he  did  not  try  to  con- 
ceal. 

"You  love  the  sea,  Signorina?"  he  asked. 

But  Vere's  enthusiasm  abruptly  vanished,  as  if  she 
feared  that  he  might  destroy  its  completeness  by  trying 
to  share  it. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said.  "We  all  do  here;  Madre,  Gas- 
pare, Monsieur  Emile — everybody." 

It  was  the  first  time  the  name  of  Artois  had  been 
mentioned  among  them  that  day.  The  Marchesino's 
full  red  lips  tightened  over  his  large  white  teeth. 

"  I  have  not  seen  Signer  Emilio  for  some  days,"  he  said. 

"Nor  have  we,"  said  Vere,  with  a  touch  of  childish 
discontent. 

He  looked  at  her  closely. 

Emilio— he  knew  all  about  Emilio.  But  the  Signorina  ? 
What  were  her  feelings  towards  the  "  vecchio  briccone  "  ? 
He  did  not  understand  the  .situation,  because  he  did  not 
understand  precisely  the  nature  of  the  madness  of  the 
English.  Had  the  ladies  been  Neapolitans,  Emilio  an 
Italian,  he  would  have  felt  on  sure  ground.  But  in  Eng- 
land, so  he  had  heard,  there  is  a  fantastic,  cold,  sexless 
something  called  friendship  that  can  exist  between  un- 
related man  and  woman. 

"Don  Emilio  writes  much,"  he  said,  with  less  than  his 
usual  alacrity.  "When  one  goes  to  see  him  he  has  al' 
ways  a  pen  in  his  hand." 

3*9 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

He  tried  to  speak  of  Emilio  with  complete  detachment, 
but  could  not  resist  adding: 

"When  one  is  an  old  man  one  likes  to  sit,  one  cannot 
be  forever  running  to  and  fro.  One  gets  tired,  I  suppose." 

There  was  marked  satire  in  the  accent  with  which  he 
said  the  last  words.  And  the  shrug  of  his  shoulders  was 
an  almost  audible  "What  can  I  know  of  that?" 

"Monsieur  Emile  writes  because  he  has  a  great  brain, 
not  because  he  has  a  tired  body,"  said  Vere,  with  sudden 
warmth. 

Her  mother  was  looking  at  her  earnestly. 

"Oh,  Signorina,  I  do  not  mean —  But  for  a  man  to  be 
always  shut  up,"  began  the  Marchesino,  "it  is  not  life." 

"You  don't  understand,  Marchese.  One  can  live  in  a 
little  room  with  the  door  shut  as  one  can  never  live — " 

Abruptly  she  stopped.  A  flush  ran  over  her  face  and 
down  to  her  neck.  Hermione  turned  away  her  eyes. 
But  they  had  read  Vere's  secret.  She  knew  what  her 
child  was  doing  in  those  hours  of  seclusion.  And  she  re- 
membered her  own  passionate  attempts  to  stave  off  de- 
spair by  work.  She  remembered  her  own  failure. 

"Poor  little  Vere!"  That  was  her  first  thought. 
"But  what  is  Emile  doing?"  That  was  the  second.  He 
had  discouraged  her.  He  had  told  her  the  truth.  What 
was  he  telling  Vere  ?  A  flood  of  bitter  curiosity  seemed 
to  rise  in  her,  drowning  many  things. 

"What  I  like  is  life,  Signorina,"  said  the  Marchesino. 
"Driving,  riding,  swimming,  sport,  fencing,  being  with 
beautiful  ladies — that  is  life." 

"Yes,  of  course,  that  is  life,"  she  said. 

What  was  the  good  of  trying  to  explain  to  him  the  in- 
ner life  ?  He  had  no  imagination. 

Her  youth  made  her  very  drastic,  very  sweeping,  in  her 
secret  mental  assertions. 

She  labelled  the  Marchesino  "Philistine,"  and  popped 
him  into  his  drawer. 

320 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Lunch  was  over,  and  they  got  up. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  the  heat  out-of-doors,  Marchese?" 
Hermione  asked,  "or  shall  we  have  coffee  in  the  garden? 
There  is  a  trellis  and  we  shall  be  out  of  the  sun." 

"Signora,  I  am  delighted  to  go  out." 

He  got  his  straw  hat,  and  they  went  into  the  tiny  gar- 
den and  sat  down  on  basket-work  chairs  under  a  trellis, 
set  in  the  shadow  of  some  fig-trees.  Giulia  brought  them 
coffee,  and  the  Marchesino  lighted  a  cigarette. 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  never  been  in  love  be- 
fore. 

Vere  wore  a  white  dress.  She  had  no  hat  on,  but  held 
rather  carelessly  over  her  small,  dark  head  a  red  parasol. 
It  was  evident  that  she  was  not  afraid  even  of  the  mid- 
day sun.  That 'new  look  in  her  face,  soft  womanhood 
at  the  windows  gazing  at  a  world  more  fully,  if  more 
sadly,  understood,  fascinated  him,  sent  the  blood  up  to 
his  head.  There  was  a  great  change  in  her.  To-day 
she  knew  what  before  she  had  not  known. 

As  he  stared  at  Vere  with  adoring  eyes  suddenly  there 
came  into  his  mind  the  question:  "Who  has  taught  her?" 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  night  when  all  in  vain  he 
had  sung  upon  the  sea,  while  the  Signorina  and  "un 
Signore"  were  hidden  somewhere  near  him. 

The  blood  sang  in  his  head,  and  something  seemed  to 
expand  in  his  brain,  to  press  violently  against  his  tem- 
ples, as  if  striving  to  force  its  way  out.  He  put  down 
his  coffee-cup,  and  the  two  perpendicular  lines  appeared 
above  his  eyebrows,  giving  him  an  odd  look,  cruel  and 
rather  catlike. 

"If  Emilio— " 

At  that  moment  he  longed  to  put  a  knife  into  his 
friend. 

But  he  was  not  sure.     He  only  suspected. 

Hermione's  role  in  this  summer  existence  puzzled  him 
exceedingly.  The  natural  supposition  in  a  Neapolitan 

321 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

would,  of  course,  have  been  that  Artois  was  her  lover 
But  when  the  Marchesino  looked  at  Hermione's  eyes  he 
could  not  tell. 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  He  felt  furious  at  being  puz- 
zled, as  if  he  were  deliberately  duped. 

"Your  cigarette  has  gone  out,  Marchese,"  said  Her- 
mione.  "Have  another." 

The  young  man  started. 

"It's  nothing." 

"Vere,  run  in  and  get  the  Marchese  a  Khali  Targa." 

The  girl  got  up  quickly. 

"No,  no!     I  cannot  permit — I  have  another  here." 

He  opened  his  case.     It  was  empty. 

Vere  laughed. 

"You  see!" 

She  went  off  before  he  could  say  another  word,  and 
the  Marchesino  was  alone  for  a  moment  with  Her- 
mione. 

"You  are  fortunate,  Signora,  in  having  such  a  daugh- 
ter," he  said,  with  a  sigh  that  was  boyish. 

"Yes,"  Hermione  said. 

That  bitter  curiosity  was  still  with  her,  and  her  voice 
sounded  listless,  almost  cold.  The  Marchesino  looked 
up.  Ah!  Was  there  something  here  that  he  could 
understand?  Something  really  feminine?  A  creeping 
jealousy?  He  was  on  the  qui  vive  at  once. 

"And  such  a  good  friend  as  Don  Emilio,"  he  added. 
"You  have  known  Emilio  for  a  long  time,  Signora?" 

"Oh  yes,  for  a  very  long  time." 

"He  is  a  strange  man,"  said  the  Marchesino,  with 
rather  elaborate  carelessness. 

"Do  you  think  so?     In  what  way?" 

"He  likes  to  know,  but  he  does  not  like  to  be  known." 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  the  remark.  Its 
acuteness  surprised  Hermione,  who  thought  the  Mar- 
chesino quick  witted  but  very  superficial. 

322 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"As  he  is  a  writer,  I  suppose  he  has  to  study  people  a 
good  deal,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"-I  do  not  think  I  can  understand  these  great  people. 
I  think  they  are  too  grand  for  me." 

"Oh,  but  Emile  likes  you  very  much.     He  told  me  so." 

"It  is  very  good  of  him,"  said  the  Marchesino,  pulling 
at  his  mustaches. 

He  was  longing  to  warn  Hermione  against  Emilio — to 
hint  that  Emilio  was  not  to  be  trusted.  He  believed  that 
Hermione  must  be  very  blind,  very  unfitted  to  look  after 
a  lovely  daughter.  But  when  he  glanced  at  her  face  he 
did  not  quite  know  how  to  hint  what  was  in  his  mind. 
And  just  then  Vere  came  back  and  the  opportunity  was 
gone.  She  held  out  a  box  to  the  Marchesino.  As  he 
thanked  her  and  took  a  cigarette  he  tried  to  look  into 
her  eyes.  But  she  would  not  let  him.  And  when  he 
struck  his  match  she  returned  once  more  to  the  house, 
carrying  the  box  with  her.  Her  movement  was  so  swift 
and  unexpected  that  Hermione  had  not  time  to  speak 
before  she  was  gone. 

"But—" 

"I  should  not  smoke  another,  Signora,"  said  the  Mar- 
chesino, quickly. 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Quite." 

"Still,  Vere  might  have  left  the  box.  She  is  inhos- 
pitable to-day." 

Hermione  spoke  lightly. 

"Oh,  it  is  bad  for  cigarettes  to  lie  in  the  sun.  It  ruins 
them." 

"But  you  should  have  filled  your  case.  You  must  do 
it  before  you  go." 

"Thank  you." 

His  head  was  buzzing  again.  The  touch  of  fever  had 
really  weakened  him.  He  knew  it  now.  Never  gifted 
with  much  self-control,  he  felt  to-day  that,  with  a  very 

323 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

slight  incentive,  he  might  lose  his  head.  The  new  at- 
mosphere which  Vere  diffused  around  her  excited  him 
strangely.  He  was  certain  that  she  was  able  to  under- 
stand something  of  what  he  was  feeling,  that  on  the  night 
of  the  storm  she  would  not  have  been  able  to  understand. 
Again  he  thought  of  Emilio,  and  moved  restlessly  in  his 
chair,  looking  sideways  at  Hermione,  then  dropping  his 
eyes.  Vere  did  not  come  back. 

Hermione  exerted  herself  to  talk,  but  the  task  became 
really  a  difficult  one,  for  the  Marchesino  looked  per- 
petually towards  the  house,  and  so  far  forgot  himself  as 
to  show  scarcely  even  a  wavering  interest  in  anything 
his  hostess  said.  As  the  minutes  ran  by  a  hot  sensation 
of  anger  began  to  overcome  him.  A  spot  of  red  appeared 
on  each  cheek. 

Suddenly  he  got  up. 

"Signora,  you  will  want  to  make  the  siesta.  I  must 
not  keep  you  longer." 

"No,  really;  I  love  sitting  out  in  the  garden,  and  you 
will  find  the  glare  of  the  sun  intolerable  if  you  go  so 
early." 

"On  the  sea  there  is  always  a  breeze.  Indeed,  I  must 
not  detain  you.  All  our  ladies  sleep  after  the  colazione 
until  the  bathing  hour.  Do  not  you?" 

"Yes,  we  lie  down.     But  to-day — " 

"You  must  not  break  the  habit.  It  is  a  necessity. 
My  boat  will  be  ready,  and  I  must  thank  you  for  a  de- 
lightful entertainment." 

His  round  eyes  were  fierce,  but  he  commanded  his 
voice. 

"A  rive—" 

"I  will  come  with  you  to  the  house  if  you  really  will 
not  stay  a  little  longer." 

"Perhaps  I  may  come  again?"  he  said,  quickly,  with 
a  sudden  hardness,  a  fighting  sound  in  his  voice.  "One 
evening  in  the  cool.  Or  do  I  bore  you?" 

324 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"No;   do  come." 

Hermione  felt  rather  guilty,  as  if  they  had  been  in- 
hospitable, she  and  Vere;  though,  indeed,  only  Vere 
was  in  fault. 

"Come  and  dine  one  night,  and  I  shall  ask  Don  Emilio." 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  steadily  at  her  guest. 

"He  was  good  enough  to  introduce  us  to  each  other, 
wasn't  he?"  she  added.  "We  must  all  have  an  even- 
ing together,  as  we  did  at  Frisio's." 

The  Marchesino  bowed. 

"With  pleasure,  Signora." 

They  came  into  the  house. 

As  they  did  so  Peppina  came  down  the  stairs.  When 
she  saw  them  she  murmured  a  respectful  salutation  and 
passed  quickly  by,  averting  her  wounded  cheek.  Almost 
immediately  behind  her  was  Vere.  The  Marchesino 
looked  openly  amazed  for  a  moment,  then  even  confused. 
He  stared  first  at  Hermione,  then  at  Vere. 

"I  am  sorry,  Madre;  I  was  kept  for  a  moment,"  the 
girl  said.  "Are  you  coming  up-stairs?" 

"The  Marchese  says  he  must  go,  Vere.  He  is  deter- 
mined not  to  deprive  us  of  our  siesta." 

"One  needs  to  sleep  at  his  hour  in  the  hot  weather," 
said  the  Marchesino. 

The  expression  of  wonder  and  confusion  was  still  upon 
his  face,  and  he  spoke  slowly. 

"Good-bye,  Marchese,"'  Vere  said,  holding  out  her 
hand. 

He  took  it  and  bowed  over  it  and  let  it  go.  The  girl 
turned  and  ran  lightly  up-stairs. 

Directly  she  was  gone  the  Marchesino  said  to  Her- 
mione: 

"Pardon  me,  Signora,  I — I — 

He  hesitated.  His  self-possession  seemed  to  have  de- 
serted him  for  the  moment.  He  looked  at  Hermione 
swiftly,  searchingly,  then  dropped  his  eyes. 

325 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"What  is  it,  Marchese?"  she  asked,  wondering  what 
was  the  matter  with  him. 

He  still  hesitated.  Evidently  he  was  much  disturbed. 
At  last  he  said  again: 

"Pardon  me,  Signora.  I — as  you  know,  I  am  Nea- 
politan. I  have  always  lived  in  Naples." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"I  know  Naples  like  my  pocket — 

He  broke  off. 

Hermione  waited  for  him  to  go  on.  She  had  no  idea 
what  was  coming. 

"Yes?"  she  said,  at  length  to  help  him. 

"Excuse  me,  Signora!  But  that  girl — that  girl  who 
passed  by  just  now — 

"My  servant,  Peppina." 

He  stared  at  her. 

"Your  servant,  Signora?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  what  she  is,  where  she  comes  from? 
But  no,  it  is  impossible." 

"I  know  all  about  Peppina,  Marchese,"  Hermione  re- 
plied, quietly. 

"Truly?    Ah!" 

His  large  round  eyes  were  still  fixedly  staring  at  her. 

"Good-bye,  Signora!"  he  said.  "Thank  you  for  a  very 
charming  colazione.  And  I  shall  look  forward  with  all 
my  heart  to  the  evening  you  have  kindly  suggested." 

' '  I  shall  write  directly  I  have  arranged  with  Don  Emilio. ' ' 

"Thank  you!     Thank  you!     A  rivederci,  Signora." 

He  cast  upon  her  one  more  gravely  staring  look,  and 
was  gone. 

When  he  was  outside  and  alone,  he  threw  up  his  hands 
and  talked  to  himself  for  a  moment,  uttering  many  ex- 
clamations. In  truth,  he  was  utterly  amazed.  Maria 
Fortunata  had  spread  abroad  diligently  the  fame  of  her 
niece's  beauty,  and  the  Marchesino,  like  the  rest  of  the 

326 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

gay  young  men  of  Naples,  had  known  of  an4  had  mis- 
judged her.  He  had  read  in  the  papers  of  the  violence 
done  to  her,  and  had  at  once  dismissed  her  from  his 
mind  with  a  murmured  "Povera  Ragazza!" 

She  was  no  longer  beautiful. 

And  now  he  discovered  her  living  as  a  servant  with 
the  ladies  of  the  island.  Who  could  have  put  her  there  ? 
He  thought  of  Emilio's  colloquy  with  Maria  Fortunata. 
But  the  Signora?  A  mother?  What  did  it  all  mean? 
Even  the  madness  of  the  English  could  scarcely  be  so 
pronounced  as  to  make  such  a  proceeding  as  this  quite 
a  commonplace  manifestation  of  the  national  life  and 
eccentricity.  He  could  not  believe  that. 

He  stepped  into  his  boat.  As  the  sailors  rowed  it  out 
from  the  Pool — the  wind  had  gone  down  and  the  sails 
were  useless — he  looked  earnestly  up  to  the  windows  of 
the  Casa  del  Mare,  longing  to  pierce  its  secrets. 

What  was  Emilio  in  that  house  ?  A  lover,  a  friend,  a 
bad  genius  ?  And  the  Signora  ?  What  was  she  ? 

The  Marchesino  was  no  believer  in  the  virtue  of  wom- 
en. But  the  lack  of  beauty  in  Hermione,  and  her  age, 
rendered  him  very  doubtful  as  to  her  role  in  the  life  on 
the  island.  Vere's  gay  simplicity  had  jumped  to  the  eyes. 
But  now  she,  too,  was  become  something  of  a  mystery. 

He  traced  it  all  to  Emilio,  and  was  hot  with  a  curiosity 
that  was  linked  closely  with  his  passion. 

Should  he  go  to  see  Emilio  ?  He  considered  the  ques- 
tion and  resolved  not  to  do  so.  He  would  try  to  be 
patient  until  the  night  of  the  dinner  on  the  island.  He 
would  be  birbante,  would  play  the  fox,  as  Emilio  surely 
had  done.  The  Panacci  temper  should  find  out  that  one 
member  of  the  family  could  control  it,  when  such  control 
served  his  purpose. 

He  was  on  fire  with  a  lust  for  action  as  he  made  his 
resolutions.  Vere's  coolness  to  him,  even  avoidance  of 
him,  had  struck  hammer-like  blows  upon  his  amour 

327 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

propre.  He  saw  her  now — yes,  he  saw  her — coming 
down  the  stairs  behind  Peppina.  Had  they  been  to- 
gether? Did  they  talk  together,  the  cold,  the  prudish 
Signorina  Inglese — so  he  called  Vere  now  in  his  anger — 
and  the  former  decoy  of  Maria  Fortunata  ? 

And  then  a  horrible  conception  of  Emilio's  role  in  all 
this  darted  into  his  mind,  and  for  a  moment  he  thought 
of  Hermione  as  a  blind  innocent,  like  his  subservient 
mother,  of  Vere  as  a  preordained  victim.  Then  the  blood 
coursed  through  his  veins  like  fire,  and  he  felt  as  if  he 
could  no  longer  sit  still  in  the  boat. 

"Avanti!  avanti!"  he  cried  to  the  sailors.  "Dio 
mio!  There  is  enough  breeze  to  sail.  Run  up  the  sail! 
Madonna  Santissima!  We  shall  not  be  to  Naples  till  it 
is  night.  Avanti!  avanti!" 

Then  he  lay  back,  crossed  his  arms  behind  his  head, 
and,  with  an  effort,  closed  his  eyes. 

He  was  determined  to  be  calm,  not  to  let  himself  go. 
He  put  his  fingers  on  his  pulse. 

"That  cursed  fever!  I  believe  it  is  coming  back,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

He  wondered  how  soon  the  Signora  would  arrange 
that  dinner  on  the  island.  He  did  not  feel  as  if  he  could 
wait  long  without  seeing  Vere  again.  But  would  it  ever 
be  possible  to  see  her  alone  ?  Emilio  saw  her  alone.  His 
white  hairs  brought  him  privileges.  He  might  take  her 
out  upon  the  sea. 

The  Marchesino  still  had  his  fingers  on  his  pulse. 
Surely  it  was  fluttering  very  strangely.  Like  many 
young  Italians,  he  was  a  mixture  of  fearlessness  and 
weakness,  of  boldness  and  childishness. 

"I  must  go  to  mamma!  I  must  have  medicine — the 
doctor,"  he  thought,  anxiously.  "There  is  something 
wrong  with  me.  Perhaps  I  have  been  looked  on  by  the 
evil  eye." 

And  down  he  went  to  the  bottom  of  a  gulf  of  depression. 

328 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HERMIONE  was  very  thankful  that  the  Marchesino  had 
gone.  She  felt  that  the  lunch  had  been  a  failure,  and 
was  sorry.  But  she  had  done  her  best.  Vere  and  the 
young  man  himself  had  frustrated  her,  she  thought.  It 
was  a  bore  having  to  entertain  any  one  in  the  hot 
weather.  As  she  went  up-stairs  she  said  to  herself  that 
her  guest's  addio  had  been  the  final  fiasco  of  an  unfortu- 
nate morning.  Evidently  he  knew  something  of  Pep- 
pina,  and  had  been  shocked  to  find  the  girl  in  the  house. 
Emile  had  told  her — Hermione — that  she  was  an  im- 
pulsive. Had  she  acted  foolishly  in  taking  Peppina? 
She  had  been  governed  in  the  matter  by  her  heart,  in 
which  dwelt  pity  and  a  passion  for  justice.  Surely  the 
sense  of  compassion,  the  love  of  fair  dealing  could  not 
lead  one  far  astray.  And  yet,  since  Peppina  had  been 
on  the  island  the  peace  of  the  life  there  had  been  less- 
ened. Emile  had  become  a  little  different,  Vere  too. 
And  even  Gaspare — was  there  not  some  change  in  him  ? 

She  thought  of  Giulia's  assertion  that  the  disfigured 
girl  had  the  evil  eye. 

She  had  laughed  at  the  idea,  and  had  spoken  very 
seriously  to  Giulia,  telling  her  that  she  was  not  to  com- 
municate her  foolish  suspicion  to  the  other  servants. 
But  certainly  the  joy  of  their  life  in  this  House  of  the 
Sea  was  not  what  it  had  been.  And  even  Vere  had  had 
forebodings  with  which  Peppina  had  been  connected. 
Perhaps  the  air  of  Italy,  this  clear,  this  radiant  atmos- 
phere which  seemed  created  to  be  the  environment  of 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

happiness,  contained  some  subtle  poison  that  was  work- 
ing in  them  all,  turning  them  from  cool  reason. 

She  thought  of  Emile,  calling  up  before  her  his  big 
frame,  his  powerful  face  with  the  steady  eyes.  And  a 
wave  of  depression  went  over  her,  as  she  understood 
how  very  much  she  had  relied  on  him  since  the  death 
of  Maurice.  Without  him  she  would  indeed  have  been 
a  derelict. 

Again  that  bitter  flood  of  curiosity  welled  up  in  her. 
She  wondered  where  Vere  was,  but  she  did  not  go  to  the 
girl's  room.  Instead,  she  went  to  her  own  sitting-room. 
Yesterday  she  had  been  restless.  She  had  felt  driven. 
To-day  she  felt  even  worse.  But  to-day  she  knew  what 
yesterday  she  had  not  known — Vere's  solitary  occupa- 
tion. Why  had  not  Vere  told  her,  confided  in  her?  It 
was  a  very  simple  matter.  The  only  reason  why  it  now 
assumed  an  importance  to  her  was  because  it  had  been 
so  carefully  concealed.  Why  had  not  Vere  told  her  all 
about  it,  as  she  told  her  other  little  matters  of  their 
island  life,  freely,  without  even  a  thought  of  hesitation? 

She  sought  the  reason  of  this  departure  which  was 
paining  her.  But  at  first  she  did  not  find  it. 

Perhaps  Vere  wanted  to  give  her  a  surprise.  For  a 
moment  her  heart  grew  lighter.  Vere  might  be  prepar- 
ing something  to  please  or  astonish  her  mother,  and 
Emile  might  be  in  the  secret,  might  be  assisting  in  some 
way.  But  no!  Vere's  mysterious  occupation  had  been 
followed  too  long.  And  then  Emile  had  not  always 
known  what  it  was.  He  had  only  known  lately. 

Those  long  reveries  of  Vere  upon  the  sea,  when  she 
lay  in  the  little  boat  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  cliffs 
over  the  Saint's  Pool — they  were  the  prelude  to  work; 
imaginative,  creative  perhaps. 

And  Vere  was  not  seventeen. 

Hermione  smiled  to  herself  rather  bitterly,  thinking 
of  the  ignorance,  of  the  inevitable  folly  of  youth.  The 

33° 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

child,  no  doubt,  had  dreams  of  fame.  What  clever,  what 
imaginative  and  energetic  child  has  not  such  dreams  at 
some  period  or  other?  How  absurd  we  all  are,  think- 
ing to  climb  to  the  stars  almost  as  soon  as  we  can  see 
them! 

And  then  the  smile  died  away  from  Hermione  *s  lips 
as  the  great  tenderness  of  the  mother  within  her  was 
moved  by  the  thought  of  the  disappointments  that  come 
with  greater  knowledge  of  life.  Vere  would  suffer  when 
she  learned  the  truth,  when  she  knew  the  meaning  of 
failure. 

Quite  simply  and  naturally  Hermione  was  including 
her  child  inevitably  within  the  circle  of  her  own  disaster. 
,  If  Emile  knew,  why  did  he  not  tell  Vere  what  he  had 
told  her  mother? 

But  Emile  had  surely  shown  much  greater  interest  in 
Vere  just  lately  than  ever  before  ? 

Was  Emile  helping  Vere  in  what  she  was  doing  ?  But 
if  he  was,  then  he  must  believe  in  Vere's  capacity  to  do 
something  that  was  worth  doing. 

Hermione  knew  the  almost  terrible  sincerity  of  Artois 
in  the  things  of  the  intellect,  his  clear,  unwavering  judg- 
ment, his  ruthless  truthfulness.  Nothing  would  ever 
turn  him  from  that.  Nothing,  unless  he — 

Her  face  became  suddenly  scarlet,  then  pale.  A  mon- 
strous idea  had  spung  up  in  her  mind,  an  idea  so  mon- 
strous that  she  strove  to  thrust  it  away  violently,  with- 
out even  contemplating  it.  Why  had  Vere  not  told  her? 
There  must  be  some  good  and  sufficient  reason.  Vehe- 
mently— to  escape  from  that  monstrous  idea — she  sought 
it.  Why  had  everything  else  in  her  child  been  revealed 
to  her,  only  this  one  thing  been  hidden  from  her? 

She  searched  the  past,  Vere  and  herself  in  that  past. 
And  now,  despite  her  emotion,  her  full  intelligence  was 
roused  up  and  at  work.  And  presently  she  remembered 
that  Emile  and  Vere  shared  the  knowledge  of  her  own 


desire  to  create,  and  her  utter  failure  to  succeed  in  crea- 
tion. Emile  knew  the  whole  naked  truth  of  that.  Vere 
did  not.  But  Vere  knew  something.  Could  that  mutual 
knowledge  be  the  reason  of  this  mutual  secrecy?  As 
women  often  do,  Hermione  had  leaped  into  the  very  core 
of  the  heart  of  the  truth,  had  leaped  out  of  the  void, 
guided  by  some  strange  instinct  never  alive  in  man.  But, 
as  women  very  seldom  do,  she  shrank  away  from  the 
place  she  had  gained.  Instead  of  triumphing,  she  was 
afraid.  She  remembered  how  often  her  imagination  had 
betrayed  her,  how  it  had  created  phantoms,  had  ruined 
for  her  the  lagging  hours.  Again  and  again  she  had  said 
to  herself,  "I  will  beware  of  it."  Now  she  accused  it  of 
playing  her  false  once  more,  of  running  wild.  Sharply, 
she  pulled  herself  up.  She  was  assuming  things.  That 
was  her  great  fault,  to  assume  that  things  were  that 
which  perhaps  they  were  not. 

How  often  Emile  had  told  her  not  to  trust  her  imag- 
ination! She  would  heed  him  now.  She  knew  nothing. 
She  did  not  even  know  for  certain  that  Vere's  flush, 
Vere's  abrupt  hesitation  at  lunch,  were  a  betrayal  of 
the  child's  secret. 

But  that  she  would  find  out. 

Again  the  fierce  curiosity  besieged  and  took  possession 
of  her.  After  all,  she  was  a  mother.  A  mother  had 
rights.  Surely  she  had  a  right  to  know  what  another 
knew  of  her  child. 

"I  will  ask  Vere,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Once  before  she  had  said  to  herself  that  she  would  do 
that,  and  she  had  not  done  it.  She  had  felt  that  to  do 
it  would  be  a  humiliation.  But  now  she  was  resolved 
to  do  it,  for  she  knew  more  of  her  own  condition  and  was 
more  afraid  of  herself.  She  began  to  feel  like  one  who 
has  undergone  a  prolonged  strain  of  work,  who  believes 
that  it  has  not  been  too  great  and  has  been  capably  sup- 
ported, and  who  suddenly  is  aware  of  a  yielding,  of  a 

332 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

downward  and  outward  movement,  like  a  wide  and 
spreading  disintegration,  in  which  brain,  nerves,  the 
whole  body  are  involved. 

Yet  what  had  been  the  strain  that  she  had  been  sup- 
porting, that  now  suddenly  she  began  to  feel  too  much  ? 
The  strain  of  a  loss.  Time  should  have  eased  it.  But 
had  Time  eased  it,  or  only  lengthened  the  period  during 
which  she  had  been  forced  to  carry  her  load?  People 
ought  to  get  accustomed  to  things.  She  knew  that  it 
is  supposed  by  many  that  the  human  body,  the  human 
mind,  the  human  heart  can  get  accustomed — by  which 
is  apparently  meant  can  cease  passionately  and  in- 
stinctively to  strive  to  repel — can  get  accustomed  to 
anything.  Well,  she  could  not.  Never  could  she  get 
accustomed  to  the  loss  of  love,  of  man's  love.  The 
whole  world  might  proclaim  its  proverbs.  For  her  they 
had  no  truth.  For  her — and  for  how  many  other  silent 
women! 

And  now  suddenly  she  felt  that  for  years  she  had  been 
struggling,  and  that  the  struggle  had  told  upon  her  far 
more  than  she  had  ever  suspected.  Nothing  must  be 
added  to  her  burden  or  she  would  sink  down.  The  dust 
would  cover  her.  She  would  be  as  nothing — or  she 
would  be  as  something  terrible,  nameless. 

She  must  ask  Vere,  do  what  she  had  said  to  herself 
that  she  would  not  do.  Unless  she  had  the  -complete 
confidence  of  her  child  she  could  not  continue  to  do 
without  the  cherishing  love  she  had  lost.  She  saw  her- 
self a  cripple,  something  maimed.  Hitherto  she  had 
been  supported  by  blessed  human  crutches:  by  Vere, 
Emile,  Gaspare.  How  heavily  she  had  leaned  upon 
them!  She  knew  that  now.  How  heavily  she  must 
still  lean  if  she  were  to  continue  on  her  way.  And  a 
fierce,  an  almost  savage  something,  desperate  and  there- 
fore arbitrary,  said  within  her: 

"I  will  keep  the  little  that  I  have:    I  will — I  will." 
333 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"The  little !"  Had  she  said  that  ?  It  was  wicked  of 
her  to  say  that.  But  she  had  had  the  wonderful  thing. 
She  had  held  for  a  brief  time  the  magic  of  the  world 
within  the  hollow  of  her  hands,  within  the  shadow  of 
her  heart.  And  the  others?  Children  slip  from  their 
parents'  lives  into  the  arms  of  another  whose  call  means 
more  to  them  than  the  voices  of  those  who  made  them 
love.  Friends  drift  away,  scarcely  knowing  why,  di- 
vided from  each  other  by  the  innumerable  channels  that 
branch  from  the  main  stream  of  existence.  Even  a 
faithful  servant  cannot  be  more  than  a  friend. 

There  is  one  thing  that  is  great,  whose  greatness  makes 
the  smallness  of  all  the  other  things.  And  so  Hermione 
said,  "the  little  that  I  have,"  and  there  was  truth  in  it. 
And  there  was  as  vital  a  truth  in  the  fact  of  her  whole 
nature  recognizing  that  little's  enormous  value  to  her. 
Not  for  a  moment  did  she  underrate  her  possession.  In- 
deed, she  had  to  fight  against  the  tendency  to  exag- 
geration. Her  intellect  said  to  her  that,  in  being  so 
deeply  moved  by  such  a  thing  as  the  concealment  from 
her  by  Vere  of  something  innocent  of  which  Emile 
knew,  she  was  making  a  water  drop  into  an  ocean.  Her 
intellect  said  that.  But  her  heart  said  no. 

And  the  voice  of  her  intellect  sank  away  like  the  frailest 
echo  that  ever  raised  its  spectral  imitation  of  a  reality. 
And  the  voice  of  her  heart  rang  out  till  it  filled  her  world. 

And  so  the  argument  was  over. 

She  thought  she  heard  a  step  below,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window  into  the  sunshine. 

Gaspare  was  there.  It  was  his  hour  of  repose,  and 
he  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  He  was  dressed  in  white 
linen,  without  a  coat,  and  had  a  white  linen  hat  on  his 
head.  He  stood  near  the  house,  apparently  looking 
out  to  sea.  And  his  pose  was  meditative.  Hermione 
watched  him.  The  sight  of  him  reminded  her  of  another 
question  she  wished  to  ask. 

334 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Gaspare  had  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  white 
trousers.  With  the  other  he  held  the  cigarette.  Her- 
mione  saw  the  wreaths  of  pale  smoke  curling  up  and 
evaporating  in  the  shining,  twinkling  air,  which  seemed 
full  of  joyous,  dancing  atoms.  But  presently  his  hand 
forgot  to  do  its  work.  The  cigarette,  only  half  smoked, 
went  out,  and  he  stood  there  as  if  plunged  in  profound 
thought.  Hermione  wondered  what  he  was  thinking  about. 

"Gaspare!" 

She  said  it  softly.     Evidently  he  did  not  hear. 

' '  Gaspare !     Gaspare ! ' ' 

Each  time  she  spoke  a  little  louder,  but  still  he  took 
no  notice. 

She  leaned  farther  out  and  called: 

"Gaspare!" 

This  time  he  heard  and  started  violently,  dropped  the 
cigarette,  then,  without  looking  up,  bent  down  slowly, 
recovered  it,  and  turned  round. 

"Signora?" 

The  sun  shone  full  on  his  upturned  face,  showing  to 
Hermione  the  dogged  look  which  sometimes  came  to  it 
when  anything  startled  him. 

"I  made  you  jump." 

"No,  Signora." 

"But  I  did.     What  were  you  thinking  about?" 

"Nothing,  Signora.     Why  are  you  not  asleep?" 

He  spoke  almost  as  if  she  injured  him  by  being  awake. 

"I  couldn't  sleep  to-day.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
this  afternoon?" 

"I  don't  know,  Signora.  Do  you  wish  me  to  do  any- 
thing for  you?" 

"Well—" 

She  had  a  wish  to  clear  things  up,  to  force  her  life,  the 
lives  of  those  few  she  cared  for,  out  of  mystery  into  a 
clear  light.  She  had  a  desire  to  chastise  thought  by 
strong,  bracing  action. 

335 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  rather  want  to  send  a  note  to  Don  Emilio." 

"SI,  Signora." 

His  voice  did  not  sound  pleased. 

"It  is  too  hot  to  row  all  the  way  to  Naples.  Couldn't 
you  go  to  the  village  and  take  the  tram  to  the  hotel — 
if  I  write  the  note?" 

"If  you  like,  Signora." 

"Or  would  it  be  less  bother  to  row  as  far  as  Mergel- 
lina,  and  take  a  tram  or  carriage  from  there?" 

"I  can  do  that,  Signora." 

He  sounded  a  little  more  cheerful. 

"I  think  I'll  write  the  note,  Gaspare,  then.  And  you 
might  take  it  some  time — whenever  you  like.  You 
might  come  and  fetch  it  in  five  minutes." 

"Very  well,  Signora." 

He  moved  away,  and  she  went  to  her  writing-table. 
She  sat  down,  and  slowly,  with  a  good  deal  of  hesitation 
and  thought,  she  wrote  part  of  a  letter  asking  Emile  to 
come  to  dine  whenever  he  liked  at  the  island.  And  now 
came  the  difficulty.  She  knew  Emile  did  not  want  to 
meet  the  Marchesino  there.  Yet  she  was  going  to  ask 
them  to  meet  each  other.  She  had  told  the  Marchesino 
so.  Should  she  tell  Emile  ?  Perhaps,  if  she  did,  he  would 
refuse  to  come.  But  she  could  never  lay  even  the 
smallest  trap  for  a  friend.  So  she  wrote  on,  asking 
Emile  to  let  her  know  the  night  he  would  come,  as  she 
had  promised  to  invite  the  Marchesino  to  meet  him. 

"Be  a  good  friend  and  do  this  for  me,"  she  ended, 
"even  if  it  bores  you.  The  Marchese  lunched  here  alone 
with  us  to-day,  and  it  was  a  fiasco.  I  think  we  were 
very  inhospitable,  and  I  want  to  wipe  away  the  recol- 
lection of  our  dulness  from  his  mind.  Gaspare  will 
bring  me  your  answer." 

At  the  bottom  she  wrote  "Hermione."  But  just  as 
she  was  going  to  seal  the  letter  in  its  envelope  she  took 
it  out,  and  added,  "Delarey"  to  her  Christian  name. 

336 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"Hermione  Delarey."  She  looked  at  the  words  for 
a  long  time  before  she  rang  the  bell  for  Gaspare. 

When  she  gave  him  the  letter,  "Are  you  going  by 
Mergellina?"  she  asked  him. 

"SI,  Signora." 

He  stood  beside  her  for  a  moment ;  then,  as  she  said 
nothing  more,  turned  to  go  out. 

"Gaspare,  wait  one  minute,"  she  said,  quickly. 

"Si,  Signora." 

"I  meant  to  ask  you  last  night,  but — well,  we  spoke 
of  other  things,  and  it  was  so  late.  Have  you  ever 
noticed  anything  about  that  boy,  Ruffo,  anything  at 
all,  that  surprised  you?" 

"Surprised  me,  Signora?" 

"Surprised  you,  or  reminded  you  of  anything?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Signora." 

Gaspare's  voice  was  hard  and  cold.  He  looked  stead- 
ily at  Hermione,  as  a  man  of  strong  character  some- 
times looks  when  he  wishes  to  turn  his  eyes  away  from 
the  glance  of  another,  but  will  not,  because  of  his  man- 
hood. 

Hermione  hesitated  to  go  on,  but  something  drove  her 
to  be  more  explicit. 

"Have  you  never  noticed  in  Ruffo  a  likeness  to — to 
your  Padrone  ?"  she  said,  slowly. 

"My  Padrone!" 

Gaspare's  great  eyes  dropped  before  hers,  and  he 
stood  looking  on  the  floor.  She  saw  a  deep  flush  cover 
his  brown  skin. 

"I  am  sure  you  have  noticed  it,  Gaspare,"  she  said. 
"  I  can  see  you  have.  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?" 

At  that  moment  she  felt  angry  with  herself  and  al- 
most angry  with  him.  Had  he  noticed  this  strange, 
this  subtle  resemblance  between  the  fisher-boy  and  the 
dead  man  at  once,  long  before  she  had?  Had  he  been 
swifter  to  see  such  a  thing  than  she  ? 

337 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"What  do  you  mean,  Signora?  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about?" 

He  looked  ugly. 

"How  can  a  fisher-boy,  a  nothing  from  Mergellina, 
look  like  my  Padrone  ?" 

Now  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  they  were  fierce — or  so 
she  thought. 

"Signora,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing?" 

"Gaspare?"  she  exclaimed,  astonished  at  his  sudden 
vehemence. 

"Signora — scusi!  But — but  there  will  never  be  an- 
other like  my  Padrone." 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  quickly  out  of  the 
room,  and  when  the  door  shut  it  was  as  if  an  iron  door 
shut  upon  a  furnace. 

Hermione  stood  looking  at  this  door.  She  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"But  he  has  seen  it!"  she  said,  aloud.  "He  has  seen 
it." 

And  Emile  ? 

Had  she  been  a  blind  woman,  she  who  had  so  loved 
the  beauty  that  was  dust  ?  She  thought  of  Vere  and 
Ruffo  standing  together,  so  youthful,  so  happy  in  their 
simple,  casual  intercourse. 

It  was  as  if  Vere  had  been  mysteriously  drawn  to  this 
boy  because  of  his  resemblance  to  the  father  she  had 
never  seen. 

Vere!     Little  Vere! 

Again  the  mother's  tenderness  welled  up  in  Hermione 's 
heart,  this  time  sweeping  away  the  reluctance  to  be 
humble. 

"  I  will  go  to  Vere  now." 

She  went  to  the  door,  as  she  had  gone  to  it  the  pre- 
vious day.  But  this  time  she  did  not  hesitate  to  open  it. 
A  strong  impulse  swept  her  along,  and  she  came  to  her 
child's  room  eagerly. 

338 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Vere!" 

She  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Vere!     May  I  come  in?" 

She  knocked  again.     There  was  no  answer. 

Then  she  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  Possibly 
Vere  was  sleeping.  The  mosquito-net  was  drawn  round 
the  bed,  but  Hermione  saw  that  her  child  was  not  behind 
it.  Vere  had  gone  out  somewhere. 

The  mother  went  to  the  big  window  which  looked  out 
upon  the  sea.  The  green  Venetian  blind  was  drawn. 
She  pushed  up  one  of  its  flaps  and  bent  to  look  through. 
Below,  a  little  way  out  on  the  calm  water,  she  saw  Vere's 
boat  rocking  softly  in  obedience  to  the  small  movement 
that  is  never  absent  from  the  sea.  The  white  awning 
was  stretched  above  the  stern-seats,  and  under  it  lay 
Vere  in  her  white  linen  dress,  her  small  head,  not  pro- 
tected by  a  hat,  supported  by  a  cushion.  She  lay  quite 
still,  one  arm  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  the  other 
against  her  side.  Hermione  could  not  see  whether  her 
eyes  were  shut  or  open. 

The  mother  watched  her  for  a  long  time  through  the 
blind. 

How  much  of  power  was  enclosed  in  that  young  figure 
that  lay  so  stiH,  so  perfectly  at  ease,  cradled  on  the  great 
sea,  warmed  and  cherished  by  the  tempered  fires  of 
the  sun!  How  much  of  power  to  lift  up  and  to  cast 
down,  to  be  secret,  to  create  sorrow,  to  be  merciful! 
Wonderful,  terrible  human  power! 

The  watching  mother  felt  just  then  that  she  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  child. 

"Now  it's  the  child's  turn." 

Surely  Vere  must  be  asleep.  Such  absolute  stillness 
must  mean  temporary  withdrawal  of  consciousness. 

Just  as  Hermione  was  thinking  this,  Vere's  left  hand 
moved.  The  girl  lifted  it  up  to  her  face,  and  gently  and 
repeatedly  rubbed  her  eyebrow. 

339 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Hermione  dropped  the  flap  of  the  blind.  The  little, 
oddly  natural  movement  had  suddenly  made  her  feel 
that  it  was  not  right  to  be  watching  Vere  when  the  child 
must  suppose  herself  to  be  unobserved  and  quite  alone 
with  the  sea. 

As  she  came  away  from  the  window  she  glanced  quick- 
ly round  the  room,  and  upon  a  small  writing-table  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  she  saw  a  number  of  sheets  of  paper 
lying  loose,  with  a  piece  of  ribbon  beside  them.  They 
had  evidently  been  taken  out  of  the  writing-table  drawer, 
which  was  partially  open,  and  which,  as  Hermione  could 
see,  contained  other  sheets  of  a  similar  kind.  Hermione 
looked,  and  then  at  once  looked  away.  She  passed  the 
table  and  reached  the  door.  When  she  was  there  she 
glanced  again  at  the  sheets  of  paper.  They  were  cov- 
ered with  writing.  They  drew,  they  fascinated  her  eyes, 
and  she  stood  still,  with  her  hand  resting  on  the  door- 
handle. As  a  rule  it  would  have  seemed  perfectly  nat- 
ural to  her  to  read  anything  that  Vere  had  left  lying 
about,  either  in  her  own  room  or  anywhere  else.  Until 
just  lately  her  child  had  never  had,  or  dreamed  of  having, 
any  secret  from  her.  Never  had  Vere  received  a  letter 
that  her  mother  had  not  seen.  Secrets  simply  did  not 
exist  between  them — secrets,  that  is,  of  .the  child  from 
the  mother. 

But  it  was  not  so  now.  And  that  was  why  those 
sheets  of  paper  drew  and  held  the  mother's  eyes. 

She  had,  of  course,  a  perfect  right  to  read  them.  Or 
had  she — she  who  had  said  to  Vere,  "Keep  your  secrets  "  ? 
In  those  words  had  she  not  deliberately  relinquished 
such  a  right  ?  She  stood  there  thinking,  recalling  those 
words,  debating  within  herself  this  question — and  surely 
with  much  less  than  her  usual  great  honesty. 

Emile,  she  was  sure,  had  read  the  writing  upon  those 
sheets  of  paper. 

She  did  not  know  exactly  why  she  was  certain  of  this 
340 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

— but  she  was  certain,  absolutely  certain.  She  remem- 
bered the  long-ago  days,  when  she  had  submitted  to  him 
similar  sheets.  What  Emile  had  read  surely  she  might 
read.  Again  that  intense  and  bitter  curiosity  mingled 
with  something  else,  a  strange,  new  jealousy  in  which 
it  was  rooted.  She  felt  as  if  Vere,  this  child  whom  she 
had  loved  and  cared  for,  had  done  her  a  cruel  wrong, 
had  barred  her  out  from  the  life  in  which  she  had  always 
been  till  now  the  best  loved,  the  most  absolutely  trusted 
dweller.  Why  should  she  not  take  that  which  she  ought 
to  have  been  given? 

Again  she  was  conscious  of  that  painful,  that  piteous 
sensation  of  one  who  is  yielding  under  a  strain  that  has 
been  too  prolonged.  Something  surely  collapsed  within 
her,  something  of  the  part  of  her  being  that  was  moral. 
She  was  no  longer  a  free  woman  in  that  moment.  She 
was  governed.  Or  so  she  felt,  perhaps  deceiving  herself. 

She  went  swiftly  and  softly  over  to  the  table  and  bent 
over  the  sheets. 

At  first  she  stood.  Then  she  sat  down.  She  took  up 
the  paper,  handled  it,  held  it  close  to  her  eyes. 

Verses!  Vere  was  writing  verses.  Of  course!  Every 
one  begins  by  being  a  poet.  Hermione  smiled,  almost 
laughed  aloud.  Poor  little  Vere  with  her  poor  little 
secret!  There  was  still  that  bitterness  in  the  mother, 
that  sense  of  wrong.  But  she  read  on  and  on.  And 
her  face  was  very  grave,  even  earnest.  And  presently 
she  started  and  her  hand  shook. 

She  had  come  to  a  poem  that  was  corrected  in  Vere's 
handwriting,  and  on  the  margin  was  written,  "Monsieur 
Emile 's  idea." 

So  there  had  been  a  conference,  and  Emile  was  advis- 
ing Vere. 

Hermione 's  hand  shook  so  violently  that  she  could  not 
go  on  reading  for  a  moment,  and  she  laid  the  paper 
down.  She  felt  like  one  who  has  suddenly  unmasked 

34i 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

a  conspiracy  against  herself.  It  was  useless  for  her  in- 
tellect to  deny  this  conspiracy,  for  her  heart  proclaim- 
ed it. 

Long  ago  Emile  had  told  her  frankly  that  it  was  in 
vain  for  her  to  waste  her  time  in  creative  work,  that  she 
had  not  the  necessary  gift  for  it.  And  now  he  was 
secretly  assisting  her  own  child — a  child  of  sixteen — to 
do  what  he  had  told  her,  the  mother,  not  to  do.  Why 
was  he  doing  this? 

Again  the  monstrous  idea  that  she  had  forcibly  dis- 
missed from  her  mind  that  day  returned  to  Hermione. 
There  is  one  thing  that  sometimes  blinds  the  most  clear- 
sighted men,  so  that  they  cannot  perceive  truth. 

But — Hermione  again  bent  over  the  sheets  of  paper, 
this  time  seeking  for  a  weapon  against  the  idea  which 
assailed  her.  On  several  pages  she  found  emendations, 
excisions,  on  one  a  whole  verse  completely  changed. 
And  on  the  margins  were  pencilled  "Monsieur  Emile 's 
suggestion";  "Monsieur  E.'s  advice";  and  once  "These 
two  lines  invented  by  Monsieur  Emile." 

When  had  Vere  and  Emile  had  the  opportunity  for 
this  long  and  secret  discussion?  On  the  day  of  the 
storm  they  had  been  together  alone.  They  had  had  tea 
together  alone.  And  on  the  night  Emile  dined  on  the 
island  they  had  been  out  in  the  boat  together  for  a  long 
time.  All  this  must  have  been  talked  over  then. 

Yes. 

She  read  on.  Had  Vere  talent?  Did  her  child  pos- 
sess what  she  had  longed  for,  and  had  been  denied  ?  She 
strove  to  read  critically,  but  she  was  too  excited,  too 
moved  to  do  so.  All  necessary  calm  was  gone.  She 
was  painfully  upset.  The  words  moved  before  her  eyes, 
running  upward  in  irregular  lines  that  resembled  creep- 
ing things,  and  she  saw  rings  of  light,  yellow  in  the  mid- 
dle and  edged  with  pale  blue. 

She  pushed  away  the  sheets  of  paper,  got  up  and  went 
342 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

again  to  the  window.  She  must  look  at  Vere  once  more, 
look  at  her  with  this  new  knowledge,  look  at  her  criti- 
cally, with  a  piercing  scrutiny.  And  she  bent  down  as 
before,  and  moved  a  section  of  the  blind,  pushing  it  up. 

There  was  no  boat  beneath  her  on  the  sea. 

She  dropped  the  blind  sharply,  and  all  the  blood  in 
her  body  seemed  to  make  a  simultaneous  movement 
away  from  the  region  of  the  heart. 

Vere  was  perhaps  already  in  the  house,  running  lightly 
up  to  the  room.  She  would  come  in  and  find  her  mother 
there.  She  would  guess  what  her  mother  had  been 
doing. 

Hermione  did  not  hesitate.  She  crossed  the  room 
swiftly,  opened  the  door,  and  went  out.  She  reached  her 
own  room  without  meeting  Vere.  But  she  had  not  been 
in  it  for  more  than  a  minute  and  a  half  when  she  heard 
Vere  come  up-stairs,  the  sound  of  her  door  open  and 
shut. 

Hermione  cleared  her  throat.  She  felt  the  need  of 
doing  something  physical.  Then  she  pulled  up  her 
blinds  and  let  the  hot  sun  stream  in  upon  her. 

She  felt  dark  just  then — black. 

In  a  moment  she  found  that  she  was  perspiring.  The 
sun  was  fierce — that,  of  course,  must  be  the  reason.  But 
she  would  not  shut  the  sun  out.  She  must  have  light 
around  her,  although  there  was  none  within  her. 

She  was  thankful  she  had  escaped  in  time.  If  she 
had  not,  if  Vere  had  run  into  the  room  and  found  her 
there,  she  was  sure  she  would  have  frightened  her  child 
by  some  strange  outburst.  She  would  have  said  or  done 
something — she  did  not  at  all  know  what — that  would 
perhaps  have  altered  their  relations  irrevocably.  For, 
in  that  moment,  the  sense  of  self-control,  of  being  her- 
self— so  she  put  it — had  been  withdrawn  from  her. 

She  would  regain  it,  no  doubt.  She  was  even  now 
regaining  it.  Already  she  was  able  to  say  to  herself 

343 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

that  she  was  not  seeing  things  in  their  true  proportions, 
that  some  sudden  crisis  of  the  nerves,  due  perhaps  to 
some  purely  physical  cause,  had  plunged  her  into  a  folly 
of  feeling  from  which  she  would  soon  escape  entirely. 
She  was  by  nature  emotional  and  unguarded:  therefore 
specially  likely  to  be  the  victim  in  mind  of  any  bodily  ill. 

And  then  she  was  not  accustomed  to  be  unwell.  Her 
strength  of  body  was  remarkable.  Very  seldom  had 
she  felt  weak. 

She  remembered  one  night,  long  ago  in  Sicily,  when  an 
awful  bodily  weakness  had  overtaken  her.  But  that  had 
been  caused  by  dread.  The  mind  had  reacted  upon  the 
body.  Now,  she  was  sure  of  it,  body  had  reacted  on  mind. 

Yet  she  had  not  been  ill. 

She  felt  unequal  to  the  battle  of  pros  and  cons  that 
was  raging  within  her. 

"I'll  be  quiet,"  she  thought.     "I'll  read." 

And  she  took  up  a  book. 

She  read  steadily  for  an  hour,  understanding  thor- 
oughly all  she  read,  and  wondering  how  she  had  ever 
fancied  she  cared  about  reading.  Then  she  laid  the 
book  down  and  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  nearly  four. 
Tea  would  perhaps  refresh  her.  And  after  tea?  She 
had  loved  the  island,  but  to-day  she  felt  almost  as  if  it 
were  a  prison.  What  was  there  to  be  done  ?  She  found 
herself  wondering  for  the  first  time  how  she  had  man- 
aged to  "get  through"  week  after  week  there.  And  in 
a  moment  her  wonder  made  her  realize  the  inward  change 
in  her,  the  distance  that  now  divided  her  from  Vere,  the 
gulf  that  lay  between  them. 

A  day  with  a  stranger  may  seem  long,  but  a  month 
with  a  friend  how  short!  To  live  with  Vere  had  been 
like  living  with  a  part  of  herself.  But  now  what  would 
it  be  like  ?  And  when  Emile  came,  and  they  three  were 
together  ? 

When  Hermione  contemplated  that  reunion,  she  felt 
344 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

that  it  would  be  to  her  intolerable.  And  yet  she  desired 
it.  For  she  wanted  to  know  something,  and  she  was 
certain  that  if  she,  Vere,  and  Emile  could  be  together, 
without  any  fourth  person,  she  would  know  it. 

A  little  while  ago,  when  she  had  longed  for  bracing 
action,  she  had  resolved  to  ask  Emile  to  meet  the  Mar- 
chesino.  She  had  felt  as  if  that  meeting  would  clear  the 
air,  would  drive  out  the  faint  mystery  which  seemed  to 
be  encompassing  them  about.  The  two  men,  formerly 
friends,  were  evidently  in  antagonism  now.  She  wanted 
to  restore  things  to  their  former  footing,  or  to  make  the 
enmity  come  out  into  the  open,  to  understand  it  thorough- 
ly, and  to  know  if  she  and  Vere  had  any  part  in  it.  Her 
desire  had  been  to  throw  open  windows  and  let  in  light. 

But  now  things  were  changed.  She  understood,  she 
knew  more.  And  she  wanted  to  be  alone  with  Emile 
and  with  Vere.  Then,  perhaps,  she  would  understand 
everything. 

She  said  this  to  herself  quite  calmly.  Her  mood  was 
changed.  The  fire  had  died  down  in  her,  and  she  felt 
almost  sluggish,  although  still  restless.  The  monstrous 
idea  had  come  to  her  again.  She  did  not  vehemently 
repel  it.  By  nature  she  was  no  doubt  an  impulsive. 
But  now  she  meant  to  be  a  watcher.  Before  she  took 
up  her  book  and  began  to  read  she  had  been,  perhaps, 
almost  hysterical,  had  been  plunged  in  a  welter  of  emo- 
tion in  which  reason  was  drowned,  had  not  been  herself. 

But  now  she  felt  that  she  was  herself. 

There  was  something  that  she  wished  to  know,  some- 
thing that  the  knowledge  she  had  gained  in  her  child's 
room  that  day  suggested  as  a  possibility. 

She  regretted  her  note  to  Emile.  Why  had  not  she 
asked  him  to  come  alone,  to-morrow,  or  even  to-night — 
yes,  to-night? 

If  she  could  only  be  with  him  and  Vere  for  a  few  min- 
utes to-night! 

345 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

WHEN  Artois  received  Hermione's  letter  he  asked  who 
had  brought  it,  and  obtained  from  the  waiter  a  fairly 
accurate  description  of  Gaspare. 

"Please  ask  him  to  come  up,"  he  said.  "I  want  to 
speak  to  him." 

Two  or  three  minutes  later  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door  and  Gaspare  walked  in,  with  a  large-eyed  inquiring 
look. 

"Good-day,  Gaspare.  You've  never  seen  my  quar- 
ters before,  I  think,"  said  Artois,  cordially. 

"No,  Signore.     What  a  beautiful  room!" 

"You're  not  in  a  great  hurry,  are  you?" 

"No,  Signore." 

"Then  smoke  a  cigar,  and  I'll  write  an  answer  to  this 
letter." 

"Thank  you,  Signore." 

Artois  gave  him  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  to  answer  the 
letter,  while  Gaspare  went  out  on  to  the  balcony  and 
stood  looking  at  the  bathers  who  were  diving  from  the 
high  wooden  platform  of  the  bath  establishment  over  the 
way.  When  Artois  had  finished  writing  he  joined  Gaspare . 
He  had  a  great  wish  that  day  to  break  down  a  reserve 
he  had  respected  for  many  years,  but  he  knew  Gaspare's 
determined  character,  his  power  of  obstinate,  of  dogged 
silence.  Gaspare's  will  had  been  strong  when  he  was  a 
boy.  The  passing  of  the  years  had  certainly  not  weak- 
ened it.  Nevertheless,  Artois  was  moved  to  make  the 
attempt  which  he  foresaw  would  probably  end  in  failure. 

346 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  gave  Gaspare  the  letter,  and  said: 

"Don't  go  for  a  moment.  I  want  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  you." 

"Si,  Signore." 

Gaspare  put  the  letter  into  the  inner  pocket  of  his 
jacket,  and  stood  looking  at  Artois,  holding  the  cigar 
in  his  left  hand.  In  all  these  years  Artois  had  never 
found  out  whether  Gaspare  liked  him  or  not.  He  wished 
now  that  he  knew. 

"Gaspare,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  know  that  I  have  a 
great  regard  for  your  Padrona." 

"Si,  Signore.     I  know  it." 

The  words  sounded  rather  cold. 

"She  has  had  a  great  deal  of  sorrow  to  bear." 

"Si,  Signore." 

"One  does  not  wish  that  she  should  be  disturbed  in 
any  way — that  any  fresh  trouble  should  come  into  her 
life." 

Gaspare's  eyes  were  always  fixed  steadily  upon  Artois, 
who,  as  he  spoke  the  last  words,  fancied  he  saw  come 
into  them  an  expression  that  was  almost  severely  ironical. 
It  vanished  at  once  as  Gaspare  said: 

"No,  Signore." 

Artois  felt  the  iron  of  this  faithful  servant's  impene- 
trable reserve,  but  he  continued  very  quietly  and  com- 
posedly: 

"You  have  always  stood  between  the  Padrona  and 
trouble  whenever  you  could.  You  always  will — I  am 
sure  of  that." 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Do  you  think  there  is  any  danger  to  the  Signora's 
happiness  here?" 

"Here,  Signore?" 

Gaspare's  emphasis  seemed  to  imply  where  they  were 
just  then  standing.  Artois  was  surprised,  then  for  a 
moment  almost  relieved.  Apparently  Gaspare  had  no 
»3  347 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

thought  in  common  with  the  strange,  the  perhaps  fan- 
tastic thought  that  had  been  in  his  own  mind. 

"Here — no!"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "Only  you  and 
I  are  here,  and  we  shall  not  make  the  Signora  unhappy." 

"Chi  lo  sa?"  returned  Gaspare. 

And  again  that  ironical  expression  was  in  his  eyes. 

"By  here  I  meant  here  in  Naples,  where  we  all  are — 
or  on  the  island,  for  instance." 

"Signore,  in  this  life  there  is  trouble  for  all." 

"But  some  troubles,  some  disasters  can  be  avoided." 

"It's  possible." 

"Gaspare" — Artois  looked  at  him  steadily,  search- 
ingly  even,  and  spoke  very  gravely — "I  respect  you  for 
your  discretion  of  many  years.  But  if  you  know  of  any 
trouble,  any  danger  that  is  near  to  the  Signora,  and 
against  which  I  could  help  you  to  protect  her,  I  hope 
you  will  trust  me  and  tell  me.  I  think  you  ought  to  do 
that." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Signore." 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Gaspare?  Are  you  quite  sure 
that  no  one  comes  to  the  island  who  might  make  the 
Signora  very  unhappy?" 

Gaspare  had  dropped  his  eyes.  Now  he  lifted  them, 
and  looked  Artois  straight  in  the  face. 

"No,  Signore,  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  he  said. 

There  was  nothing  rude  in  his  voice,  but  there  was 
something  stern.  Artois  felt  as  if  a  strong,  determined 
man  stood  in  his  path  and  blocked  the  way.  But  why  ? 
Surely  they  were  at  cross  purposes.  The  working  of 
Gaspare's  mind  was  not  clear  to  him. 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  he  said: 

"What  I  mean  is  this.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  if  the  Signora  left  the  island?" 

"Left  the  island,  Signore?" 

"Yes,  and  went  away  from  Naples  altogether." 

"The  Signorina  would  never  let  the  Padrona  go.  The 
348 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Signorina  loves  the  island  and  my  Padrona  loves  the 
Signorina." 

"But  the  Signorina  would  not  be  selfish.  If  it  was 
best  for  her  mother  to  go — 

"The  Signorina  would  not  think  it  was  best;  she 
would  never  think  it  was  best  to  leave  the  island." 

"But  what  I  want  to  know,  Gaspare,  is  whether  you 
think  it  would  be  best  for  them  to  leave  the  island. 
That's  what  I  want  to  know — and  you  haven't  told  me." 

"I  am  a  servant,  Signore.     I  cannot  tell  such  things." 

"You  are  a  servant — yes.  But  you  are  also  a  friend. 
And  I  think  nobody  could  tell  better  than  you." 

"I  am  sure  the  Signora  will  not  leave  the  island  till 
October,  Signore.  She  says  we  are  all  to  stay  until  the 
end  of  October." 

"And  now  it's  July." 

"Si,  Signore.     Now  it's  July." 

In  saying  the  last  words  Gaspare's  voice  sounded 
fatalistic,  and  Artois  believed  that  he  caught  an  echo 
of  a  deep-down  thought  of  his  own.  With  all  his  vir- 
tues Gaspare  had  an  admixture  of  the  spirit  of  the  East 
that  dwells  also  in  Sicily,  a  spirit  that  sometimes,  brood- 
ing over  a  nature  however  fine,  prevents  action,  a  spirit 
that  says  to  a  man,  "This  is  ordained.  This  is  destiny. 
This  is  to  be." 

"Gaspare,"  Artois  said,  strong  in  this  conviction,  "I 
have  heard  you  say,  'e  il  destine.'  But  you  know  we 
can  often  get  away  from  things  if  we  are  quick-witted." 

"Some  things,  Signore." 

"Most  things,  perhaps.     Don't  you  trust  me?" 

"Signore!" 

"Don't  you  think,  after  all  these  years,  you  can  trust 
me?" 

"Signore,  I  respect  you  as  I  respect  my  father." 

"Well,  Gaspare,  remember  this.  The  Signora  has  had 
trouble  enough  in  her  life.  We  must  keep  out  any  more." 

349 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Signore,  I  shall  always  do  what  I  can  to  spare 
my  Padrona.  Thank  you  for  the  cigar,  Signore.  I 
ought  to  go  now.  I  have  to  go  to  Mergellina  for  the 
boat." 

"To  Mergellina?" 

Again  Artois  looked  at  him  searchingly. 

"Si,  Signore;  I  left  the  boat  at  Mergellina.  It  is  very 
hot  to  row  all  the  way  here." 

"Yes.  A  rivederci,  Gaspare.  Perhaps  I  shall  sail 
round  to  the  island  to-night  after  dinner.  But  I'm  not 
sure.  So  you  need  not  say  I  am  coming." 

"A  rivederci,  Signore." 

When  Gaspare  had  gone,  Artois  said  to  himself,  "He 
does  not  trust  me." 

Artois  was  surprised  to  realize  how  hurt  he  felt  at 
Gaspare's  attitude  towards  him  that  day.  Till  now 
their  mutual  reserve  had  surely  linked  them  together. 
Their  silence  had  been  a  bond.  But  there  was  a  change, 
and  the  bond  seemed  suddenly  loosened. 

"Damn  the  difference  between  the  nations!"  Artois 
thought.  "How  can  we  grasp  the  different  points  of 
view  ?  How  can  even  the  cleverest  of  us  read  clearly  in 
others  of  a  different  race  from  our  own?" 

He  felt  frustrated,  as  he  had  sometimes  felt  frustrated 
by  Orientals.  And  he  knew  an  anger  of  the  brain  as  well 
as  an  anger  of  the  heart.  But  this  anger  roused  him, 
and  he  resolved  to  do  something  from  which  till  now 
he  had  instinctively  shrunk,  strong-willed  man  though 
he  was.  If  Gaspare  would  not  help  him  he  would  act 
for  himself.  Possibly  the  suspicion,  the  fear  that  beset 
him  was  groundless.  He  had  put  it  away  from  him  more 
than  once,  had  said  that  it  was  absurd,  that  his  pro- 
fession of  an  imaginative  writer  rendered  him,  perhaps, 
more  liable  to  strange  fancies  than  were  other  men,  that 
it  encouraged  him  to  seek  instinctively  for  drama,  and 
that  what  a  man  instinctively  and  perpetually  seeks  he 

35° 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

will  often  imagine  that  he  has  found.  Now  he  would 
try  to  prove  what  was  the  truth. 

He  had  written  to  Hermione  saying  that  he  would  be 
glad  to  dine  with  her  on  any  evening  that  suited  the 
Marchesino,  that  he  had  no  engagements.  Why  she 
wished  him  to  meet  the  Marchesino  he  did  not  know. 
No  doubt  she  had  some  woman's  reason.  The  one  she 
gave  was  hardly  enough,  and  he  divined  another  beneath 
it.  Certainly  he  did  not  love  Doro  on  the  island,  but 
perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  they  should  meet  there  once, 
and  get  over  their  little  antagonism,  an  antagonism  that 
Artois  thought  of  as  almost  childish.  Life  was  not  long 
enough  for  quarrels  with  boys  like  Doro.  Artois  had 
refused  Hermione 's  invitation  on  the  sea  abruptly.  He 
had  felt  irritated  for  the  moment,  because  he  had  for  the 
moment  been  unusually  expansive,  and  her  announce- 
ment that  Doro  was  to  be  there  had  fallen  upon  him  like 
a  cold  douche.  And  then  he  had  been  nervous,  highly 
strung  from  overwork.  Now  he  was  calm,  and  could 
look  at  things  as  they  were.  And  if  he  noticed  anything 
leading  him  to  suppose  that  the  Marchesino  was  likely 
to  try  to  abuse  Hermione's  hospitality  he  meant  to  have 
it  out  with  him.  He  would  speak  plainly  and  explain 
the  English  point  of  view.  Doro  would  no  doubt  attack 
him  on  the  ground  of  his  interview  with  Maria  Fortunata. 
He  did  not  care.  Somehow  his  present  preoccupation 
with  Hermione's  fate,  increased  by  the  visit  of  Gaspare, 
rendered  his  irritation  against  the  Marchesino  less  keen 
than  it  had  been.  But  he  thought  he  would  probably 
visit  the  island  to-night — after  another  visit  which  he 
intended  to  pay.  He  could  not  start  at  once.  He  must 
give  Gaspare  time  to  take  the  boat  and  row  off.  For  his 
first  visit  was  to  Mergellina. 

After  waiting  an  hour  he  started  on  foot,  keeping  along 
by  the  sea,  as  he  did  not  wish  to  meet  acquaintances,  and 
was  likely  to  meet  them  in  the  Villa.  As  he  drew  near 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

to  Mergellina  he  felt  a  great  and  growing  reluctance  to 
do  what  he  had  come  to  do,  to  make  inquiries  into  a  cer- 
tain matter;  and  he  believed  that  this  reluctance,  awake 
within  him  although  perhaps  he  had  scarcely  been  aware 
of  it,  had  kept  him  inactive  during  many  days.  Yet  he 
was  not  sure  of  this.  He  was  not  sure  when  a  faint  sus- 
picion had  first  been  born  in  his  mind.  Even  now  he 
said  to  himself  that  what  he  meant  to  do,  if  explained 
to  the  ordinary  man,  would  probably  seem  to  him  ridicu- 
lous, that  the  ordinary  man  would  say,  "What  a  wild 
idea!  Your  imagination  runs  riot."  •  But  he  thought 
of  certain  subtle  things  which  had  seemed  like  indica- 
tions, like  shadowy  pointing  fingers;  of  a  look  in  Gas- 
pare's eyes  when  they  had  met  his — a  hard,  defiant  look 
that  seemed  shutting  him  out  from  something ;  of  a  look 
in  another  face  one  night  under  the  moon;  of  some  words 
spoken  in  a  cave  with  a  passion  that  had  reached  his 
heart;  of  two  children  strangely  at  ease  in  each  other's 
society.  And  again  the  thought  pricked  him,  "Is  not 
everything  possible — even  that?"  All  through  his  life 
he  had  sought  truth  with  persistence,  sometimes  almost 
with  cruelty,  yet  now  he  was  conscious  of  timidity,  al- 
most of  cowardice — as  if  he  feared  to  seek  it. 

Long  ago  he  had  known  a  cowardice  akin  to  this,  in 
Sicily.  Then  he  had  been  afraid,  not  for  himself  but 
for  another.  To-day  again  the  protective  instinct  was 
alive  in  him.  It  was  that  instinct  which  made  him 
afraid,  but  it  was  also  that  instinct  which  kept  him  to 
his  first  intention,  which  pushed  him  on  to  Mergellina. 
No  safety  can  be  in  ignorance  for  a  strong  man.  He 
must  know.  Then  he  can  act. 

When  Artois  reached  Mergellina  he  looked  about  for 
Ruffo,  but  he  could  not  see  the  boy.  He  had  never  in- 
quired Ruffo's  second  name.  He  might  make  a  guess  at  it. 
Should  he  ?  He  looked  at  a  group  of  fishermen  who  were 
talking  loudly  on  the  sand  just  beyond  the  low  wall. 

352 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

One  of  them  had  a  handsome  face  bronzed  by  the  sun, 
frank  hazel  eyes,  a  mouth  oddly  sensitive  for  one  of  his 
class.  His  woollen  shirt,  wide  open,  showed  a  medal 
resting  on  his  broad  chest,  one  of  those  amulets  that  are 
said  to  protect  the  fishermen  from  the  dangers  of  the  sea. 
Artois  resolved  to  ask  this  man  the  question  he  wished, 
yet  feared  to  put  to  some  one.  Afterwards  he  wondered 
why  he  had  picked  out  this  man.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause he  looked  happy. 

Artois  caught  the  man's  eye. 

"You  want  a  boat,  Signore?" 

With  a  quick  movement  the  fellow  was  beside  him  on 
the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"I'll  take  your  boat — perhaps  this  evening." 

"At  what  hour,  Signore?" 

"We'll  see.  But  first  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  some- 
thing." 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  live  here  at  Mergellina?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Do  you  know  any  one  called — called  Buonavista?" 

The  eyes  of  Artois  were  fixed  on  the  man's  face. 

"Buonavista — si,  Signore." 

"You  do?" 

"Ma  si,  Signore,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  Artois 
with  a  sudden  flash  of  surprise.  "The  family  Buona- 
vista, I  have  known  it  all  my  life." 

"The  family?     Oh,  then  there  are  many  of  them?" 

The  man  laughed. 

"Enrico  Buonavista  has  made  many  children,  and  is 
proud  of  it,  I  can  tell  you.  He  has  ten — his  father  be- 
fore him — 

"Then  they  are  Neapolitans?" 

"Neapolitans!  No,  Signore.  They  are  from  Mergellina. " 

Artois  smiled.  The  tension  which  had  surprised  the 
sailor  had  left  his  face. 

353      » 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  understand.  But  there  is  no  Sicilian  here  called 
Buonavista?" 

"A  Sicilian,  Signore?  I  never  heard  of  one.  Are 
there  Buonavistas  in  Sicily?" 

"I  have  met  with  the  name  there  once.  But  perhaps 
you  can  tell  me  of  a  boy,  one  of  the  fishermen,  called 
Ruffo?" 

"Ruffo  Scarla?  You  mean  Ruffo  Scarla,  who  fishes 
with  Giuseppe — Mandano  Giuseppe,  Signore?" 

"It  may  be.  A  young  fellow,  a  Sicilian  by  birth,  I 
believe." 

"II  Siciliano!  SI,  Signore.  We  call  him  that,  but 
he  has  never  been  in  Sicily,  and  was  born  in  America." 

"That's  the  boy." 

"Do  you  want  him,  Signore?  But  he  is  not  here  to- 
day. He  is  at  sea  to-day." 

"I  did  want  to  speak  to  him." 

"But  he  is  not  a  boatman,  Signore.  He  does  not  go 
with  the  travellers.  He  is  a  fisherman." 

"Yes.     Do  you  know  his  mother?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"Bernari,  Signore.  She  is  married  to  Antonio  Ber- 
nari,  who  is  in  prison." 

"In  prison?     What's  he  been  doing?" 

"He  is  always  after  the  girls,  Signore.  And  now  he 
has  put  a  knife  into  one." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Diavolo!  He  is  jealous.  He  has  not  been  tried  yet, 
perhaps  he  never  will  be.  His  wife  has  gone  into  Naples 
to-day  to  see  him." 

"Oh,  she's  away?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

"And  her  name,  her  Christian  name?  It's  Maria, 
isn't  it?" 

"No,  Signore,  Maddalena — Maddalena  Bernari." 

354 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Artois  said  nothing  for  a  minute.     Then  he  added: 

"I  suppose  there  are  plenty  of  Maddalenas  here  in 
Mergellina?" 

The  man  laughed. 

"SI,  Signore.  Marias  and  Maddalenas — you  find  them 
everywhere.  Why,  my  own  mamma  is  Maddalena,  and 
my  wife  is  Maria,  and  so  is  my  sister." 

"Exactly.  And  your  name ?  I  want  it,  so  that  when 
next  I  take  a  boat  here  I  can  ask  for  yours." 

"Fabiano,  Signore,  Lari  Fabiano,  and  my  boat  is  the 
Stella  del  Mare" 

"Thank  you,  Fabiano." 

Artois  put  a  lira  into  his  hand. 

"I  shall  take  the  Star  of  the  Sea  very  soon." 

"This  evening,  Signore;  it  will  be  fine  for  sailing  this 
evening." 

"  If  not  this  evening,  another  day.  Arivederci,  Fabiano. " 

"A  rivederci,  Signore.     Buon  passeggio." 

The  man  went  back  to  his  companions,  and,  as  Artois 
walked  on  began  talking  eagerly  to  them,  and  pointing 
after  the  stranger. 

Artois  did  not  know  what  he  would  do  later  on  in  the 
evening,  but  he  had  decided  on  the  immediate  future. 
He  would  walk  up  the  hill  to  the  village  of  Posilipo, 
then  turn  down  to  the  left,  past  the  entrance  to  the  Villa 
Rosebery,  and  go  to  the  Antico  Giuseppone,  where  he 
would  dine  by  the  waterside.  It  was  quiet  there,  he 
knew;  and  he  could  have  a  cutlet  and  a  zampaglione,  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  cigar,  and  sit  and  watch  the  night 
fall.  And  when  it  had  fallen?  Well,  he  would  not  be 
far  from  the  island,  nor  very  far  from  Naples,  and  he 
could  decide  then  what  to  do. 

He  followed  out  this  plan,  and  arrived  at  the  Giusep- 
pone at  evening.  As  he  came  down  the  road  between 
the  big  buildings  near  the  waterside  he  saw  in  the  dis- 
tance a  small  group  of  boys  and  men  lounging  by  the 

355 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

three  or  four  boats  that  lie  at  the  quay,  and  feared  to 
find,  perhaps,  a  bustle  and  noise  of  people  round  the 
corner  at  the  ristorante.  But  when  he  turned  the  corner 
and  came  to  the  little  tables  that  were  set  out  in  the 
open  air,  he  was  glad  to  see  only  two  men  who  were 
bending  over  their  plates  of  fish  soup.  He  glanced  at 
them,  almost  without  noticing  them,  so  preoccupied  was 
he  with  his  thoughts,  sat  down  at  an  adjoining  table 
and  ordered  his  simple  meal.  While  it  was  being  got 
ready  he  looked  out  over  the  sea. 

The  two  men  near  him  conversed  occasionally  in  low 
voices.  He  paid  no  heed  to  them.  Only  when  he  had 
dined  slowly  and  was  sipping  his  black  coffee  did  they 
attract  his  attention.  He  heard  one  of  them  say  to  the 
other  in  French: 

' '  What  am  I  to  do  ?  It  would  be  terrible  for  me ! 
How  am  I  to  prevent  it  from  happening?" 

His  companion  replied: 

"I  thought  you  had  been  wandering  all  the  winter 
in  the  desert." 

"I  have.     What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Have  you  not  learned  its  lesson?" 

"What  lesson?" 

"The  lesson  of  resignation,  of  obedience  to  the  thing 
that  must  be." 

Artois  looked  towards  the  last  speaker  and  saw  that 
he  was  an  Oriental,  and  that  he  was  very  old.  His 
companion  was  a  young  Frenchman. 

"What  do  those  do  who  have  not  learned ?"  continued 
the  Oriental.  "They  seek,  do  they  not?  They  rebel, 
they  fight,  they  try  to  avoid  things,  they  try  to  bring 
things  about.  They  lift  up  their  hands  to  disperse  the 
grains  of  the  sand-storm.  They  lift  up  their  voices  to 
be  heard  by  the  wind  from  the  South.  They  stretch 
forth  their  hands  to  gather  the  mirage  into  their  bosom. 
They  follow  the  drum  that  is  beaten  among  the  dunes. 

356 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

They  are  afraid  of  life  because  they  know  it  has  two 
kinds  of  gifts;  and  one  they  snatch  at,  and  one  they 
would  refuse.  And  they  are  afraid  still  more  of  the 
door  that  all  must  enter,  Sultan  and  Nomad — he  who 
has  washed  himself  and  made  the  threefold  pilgrimage, 
and  he  who  is  a  leper  and  is  eaten  by  flies.  So  it  is. 
And  nevertheless  all  that  is  to  come  must  come,  and  all 
that  is  to  go  must  go  at  the  time  appointed ;  just  as  the 
cloud  falls  and  lifts  at  the  time  appointed,  and  the  wind 
blows  and  fails,  and  Ramadan  is  here  and  is  over." 

As  he  ceased  from  speaking  he  got  up  from  his  chair, 
and,  followed  by  the  young  Frenchman,  he  passed  in 
front  of  Artois,  went  down  to  the  waterside,  stepped 
into  a  boat,  and  was  rowed  away  into  the  gathering 
shadows  of  night. 

Artois  sat  very  still  for  a  time.  Then  he,  too,  got 
into  a  boat  and  was  rowed  away  across  the  calm  water 
to  the  island. 

He  found  Hermione  sitting  alone,  without  a  lamp,  on 
the  terrace,  meditating,  perhaps,  beneath  the  stars. 
When  she  saw  him  she  got  up  quickly,  and  a  strained 
look  of  excitement  came  into  her  face. 

"You  have  come!" 

"Yes.  You — are  you  surprised?  Did  you  wish  to 
be  alone?" 

"No.     Will  you  have  some  coffee?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  dined  at  the  Giuseppone.     I  had  it  there." 

He  glanced  round. 

"Are  you  looking  for  Vere?  She  is  out  on  the  cliff,  I 
suppose.  Shall  we  go  to  her?" 

He  was  struck  by  her  nervous  uneasiness.  And  he 
thought  of  the  words  of  the  old  Oriental,  which  had 
made  upon  him  a  profound  impression,  perhaps  because 
they  had  seemed  spoken,  not  to  the  young  Frenchman, 
but  in  answer  to  unuttered  thoughts  of  his  own. 

357 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Let  us  sit  here  for  a  minute,"  he  said. 

Hermione  sat  down  again  in  silence.  They  talked 
for  a  little  while  about  trifling  things.  And  then  Artois 
was  moved  to  tell  her  of  the  conversation  he  had  that 
evening  overheard,  to  repeat  to  her,  almost  word  for 
word,  what  the  old  Oriental  had  said.  When  he  had 
finished  Hermione  was  silent  for  a  minute.  Then  she 
moved  her  chair  and  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice: 

"I  don't  think  I  should  ever  learn  the  lesson  of  the 
desert.  Perhaps  only  those  who  belong  to  it  can  learn 
from  it." 

"If  it  is  so  it  is  sad — for  the  others." 

"Let  us  go  and  find  Vere,"  she  said. 

"Are  you  sure  she  is  on  the  cliff?"  he  asked,  as  they 
passed  out  by  the  front  door. 

"I  think  so.     I  am  almost  certain  she  is." 

They  went  forward,  and  almost  immediately  heard  a 
murmur  of  voices. 

"Vere  is  with  some  one,"  said  Artois. 

"It  must  be  Ruffo.     It  is  Ruffo." 

She  stood  still.  Artois  stood  still  beside  her.  The 
night  was  windless.  Voices  travelled  through  the  dream- 
ing silence. 

"Don't  be  afraid.     Sing  it  to  me." 

Vere's  voice  was  speaking.  Then  a  boy's  voice  rang 
out  in  the  song  of  Mergellina.  The  obedient  voice  was 
soft  and  very  young,  though  manly.  And  it  sounded 
as  if  it  sang  only  for  one  person,  who  was  very  near. 
Yet  it  was  impersonal.  It  asked  nothing  from,  it  told 
nothing  to,  that  person.  Simply,  and  very  naturally, 
it  just  gave  to  the  night  a  very  simple  and  a  very  natural 
song. 

"Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1'  Estate 

Mi  fugge  il  sonno  accanto  a  la  marina: 
Mi  destan  le  dolcissime  serate 

Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  jl  mar  di  Mergellina." 

358 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

As  Artois  listened  he  felt  as  if  he  learned  what  he  had 
not  been  able  to  learn  that  day  at  Mergellina.  Strange 
as  this  thing  was — if  indeed  it  was — he  felt  that  it  must 
be,  that  it  was  ordained  to  be,  it  and  all  that  might 
follow  from  it.  He  even  felt  almost  that  Hermione 
must  already  know  it,  have  divined  it,  as  if,  therefore, 
any  effort  to  hide  it  from  her  must  be  fruitless,  or  even 
contemptible,  as  if  indeed  all  effort  to  conceal  truth  of 
whatever  kind  was  contemptible. 

The  words  of  the  Oriental  had  sunk  deep  into  his 
soul. 

When,  the  song  was  over  he  turned  resolutely  away. 
He  felt  that  those  children  should  not  be  disturbed. 
Hermione  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  she  fell  in 
with  his  caprice.  At  the  house  door  he  bade  her  good- 
bye. She  scarcely  answered.  And  he  left  her  standing 
there  alone  in  the  still  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HER  unrest  was  greater  than  ever,  and  the  desire  that 
consumed  her  remained  ungratified,  although  Emile  had 
come  to  the  island  as  if  in  obedience  to  her  fierce  mental 
summons.  But  she  had  not  seen  him  even  for  a,moment 
with  Vere.  Why  had  she  let  him  go  ?  When  would  he 
come  again?  She  might  ask  him  to  come  for  a  long 
day,  or  she  might  get  Vere  to  ask  him. 

Vere  must  surely  be  longing  to  have  a  talk  with  her 
secret  mentor,  with  her  admirer  and  inspirer.  And  then 
Hermione  remembered  how  often  she  had  encouraged 
Emile,  how  they  had  discussed  his  work  together,  how 
he  had  claimed  her  sympathy  in  difficult  moments,  how 
by  her  enthusiasm  she  had  even  inspired  him — so  at 
least  he  had  told  her.  And  now  he  was  fulfilling  in  her 
child's  life  an  office  akin  to  hers  in  his  life. 

The  knowledge  made  her  feel  desolate,  driven  out. 
Yes,  she  felt  as  if  this  secret  shared  by  child  and  friend 
had  expelled  her  from  their  lives.  Was  that  unreason- 
able? She  wished  to  be  reasonable,  to  be  calm. 

Calm!  She  thought  of  the  old  Oriental,  and  of 
his  theory  of  resignation.  Surely  it  was  not  for  her, 
that  theory.  She  was  of  different  blood.  She  did  not 
issue  from  the  loins  of  the  immutable  East.  And  yet 
how  much  better  it  was  to  be  resigned,  to  sit  enthroned 
above  the  chances  of  life,  to  have  conquered  fate  by 
absolute  submission  to  its  decrees ! 

Why  was  her  heart  so  youthful  in  her  middle-aged 
body?  Why  did  it  still  instinctively  clamor  for  sym- 

360 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

pathy,  like  a  child's?  Why  could  she  be  so  easily  and 
so  cruelly  wounded  ?  It  was  weak.  It  was  contempti- 
ble. She  hated  herself.  But  she  could  only  be  the 
thing  she  at  that  moment  hated. 

Her  surreptitious  act  of  the  afternoon  seemed  to  have 
altered  her  irrevocably,  to  have  twisted  her  out  of  shape 
— yet  she  could  not  wish  it  undone,  the  knowledge  gained 
by  it  withheld.  She  had  needed  to  know  what  Emile 
knew,  and  chance  had  led  her  to  learn  it,  as  she  had 
learned  it,  with  her  eyes  instead  of  from  the  lips  of  her 
child. 

She  wondered  what  Vere  would  have  said  if  she  had 
been  asked  to  reveal  the  secret.  She  would  never  know 
that  now.  But  there  were  other  things  that  she  felt  she 
must  know:  why  Vere  had  never  told  her — and  some- 
thing else. 

Her  act  of  that  day  had  twisted  her  out  of  shape. 
She  was  awry,  and  she  felt  that  she  must  continue  to 
be  as  she  was,  that  her  fearless  honesty  was  no  longer 
needed  by  her,  could  no  longer  rightly  serve  her  in  the 
new  circumstances  that  others  had  created  for  her. 
They  had  been  secret.  She  could  not  be  open.  She 
was  constrained  to  watch,  to  conceal — to  be  awry,  in 
fact. 

Yet  she  felt  guilty  even  while  she  said  this  to  herself, 
guilty  and  ashamed,  and  then  doubtful.  She  doubted 
her  new  capacity  to  be  furtive.  She  could  watch,  but 
she  did  not  know  whether  she  could  watch  without  show- 
ing what  she  was  doing.  And  Emile  was  terribly  ob- 
servant. 

This  thought,  of  his  subtlety  and  her  desire  to  conceal, 
made  her  suddenly  realize  their  altered  relations  with 
a  vividness  that  frightened  her.  Where  was  the  beau- 
tiful friendship  that  had  been  the  comfort,  the  prop  of 
her  bereaved  life?  It  seemed  already  to  have  sunk 
away  into  the  past.  She  wondered  what  was  in  store  for 

361 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

her,  if  there  were  new  sorrows  being  forged  for  her 
in  the  cruel  smithy  of  the  great  Ruler,  sorrows  that 
would  hang  like  chains  about  her  till  she  could  go  no 
farther.  The  Egyptian  had  said:  "What  is  to  come  will 
come,  and  what  is  to  go  will  go,  at  the  time  appointed." 
And  Vere  had  said  she  felt  as  if  perhaps  there  was  a 
cross  that  must  be  borne  by  some  one  on  the  island,  by 
"one  of  us."  Was  she,  Hermione,  picked  out  to  bear 
that  cross?  Surely  God  mistook  the  measure  of  her 
strength.  If  He  had  He  would  soon  know  how  feeble 
she  was.  When  Maurice  had  died,  somehow  she  had  en- 
dured it.  She  had  staggered  under  the  weight  laid  upon 
her,  but  she  had  upheld  it.  But  now  she  was  much  older, 
and  she  felt  as  if  suffering,  instead  of  strengthening,  had 
weakened  her  character,  as  if  she  had  not  much  "fight" 
left  in  her. 

"I  don't  believe  I  could  endure  another  great  sorrow," 
she  said  to  herself.  "I'm  sure  I  couldn't." 

Just  then  Vere  came  in  to  bid  her  good-night. 

"Good-night,  Vere,"  Hermione  said. 

She  kissed  the  girl  gently  on  the  forehead,  and  the 
touch  of  the  cool  skin  suddenly  made  her  long  to  sob, 
and  to  say  many  things.  She  took  her  lips  away. 

"Emile  has  been  here,"  she  said. 

"Monsieur  Emile!" 

Vere  looked  round. 

"But—" 

"He  has  gone." 

"Gone!     But  I  haven't  seen  him!" 

Her  voice  sounded  thoroughly  surprised. 

"He  only  stayed  five  minutes  or  so." 

"Oh,  Madre,  I  wish  I  had  known!" 

There  was  a  touch  of  reproach  in  Vere's  tone,  and 
there  was  something  so  transparently  natural,  so  trans- 
parently innocent  and  girlish  in  her  disappointment, 
that  it  told  her  mother  something  she  was  glad  to  know. 

362 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Not  that  she  had  doubted  it — but  she  was  glad  to 
know. 

"We  came  to  look  for  you." 

"Well,  but  I  was  only  on  the  cliff,  where  I  always  go. 
I  was  there  having  a  little  talk  with  Ruffo." 

"I  know." 

"And  you  never  called  me,  Madre!"  Vere  looked 
openly  hurt.  "Why  didn't  you?" 

In  truth,  Hermione  hardly  knew.  Surely  it  had  been 
Emile  who  had  led  them  away  from  the  singing  voice 
of  Ruffo. 

"Ruffo  was  singing." 

"A  song  about  Mergellina.  Did  you  hear  it?  I  do 
like  it  and  the  way  he  sings  it." 

The  annoyance  had  gone  from  her  face  at  the  thought 
of  the  song. 

"And  when  he  sings  he  looks  so  careless  and  gay. 
Did  you  listen?" 

"Yes,  for  a  moment,  and  then  we  went  away.  I  think 
it  was  Emile  who  made  us  go.  He  didn't  want  to  dis- 
turb you,  I  think." 

"I  understand." 

Vere's  face  softened.  Again  Hermione  felt  a  creep- 
ing jealousy  at  her  heart.  Vere  had  surely  been  annoyed 
with  her,  but  now  she  knew  that  it  was  Emile  who  had 
not  wished  to  disturb  the  tete-b-tete  on  the  cliff  she  did 
not  mind.  She  even  looked  as  if  she  were  almost 
touched.  Could  the  mother  be  wrong  where  the  mere 
friend  was  right  ?  She  felt,  when  Vere  spoke  and  her 
expression  changed,  the  secret  understanding  from  which 
she  was  excluded. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Madre?" 

"The  matter!     Nothing.     Why?" 

"You  looked  so  odd  for  a  minute.     I  thought — " 

But  she  did  not  express  what  she  had  thought,  for 
Hermione  interrupted  her  by  saying: 
a*  363 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"We  must  get  Emile  to  come  for  a  long  day.  I  wish 
you  would  write  him  a  note  to-morrow  morning,  Vere. 
Write  for  me  and  ask  him  to  come  on  Thursday.  I  have 
a  lot  to  do  in  the  morning.  Will  you  save  me  the 
trouble?"  She  tried  to  speak,  carelessly.  "I've  a  long 
letter  to  oend  to  Evelyn  Townley,"  she  added. 

"Of  course,  Madre.  And  I'll  tell  Monsieur  Emile  all 
I  think  of  him  for  neglecting  us  as  he  has.  Ah!  But  1 
remember;  he's  been  working." 

"Yes,  he's  been  working;  and  one  must  forgive  every- 
thing to  the  worker,  mustn't  one?" 

"To  such  a  worker  as  Monsieur  Emile  is,  yes.  I  do 
wish  you'd  let  me  read  his  books,  Madre." 

For  a  moment  Hermione  hesitated,  looking  at  her 
child. 

"  Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  read  them  all  of  a  sud- 
den?" she  asked. 

"Well,  I'm  growing  up  and — and  I  understand  things 
I  used  not  to  understand." 

Her  eyes  fell  for  a  moment  before  her  mother's,  and 
there  was  a  silence,  in  which  the  mother  felt  some  truth 
withheld.  Vere  looked  up  again. 

' '  And  I  want  to  appreciate  Monsieur  Emile  properly — 
as  you  do,  Madre.  It  seems  almost  ridiculous  to  know 
him  so  well,  and  not  to  know  him  really  at  all." 

"But  you  do  know  him  really." 

"I'm  sure  he  puts  most  of  his  real  self  into  his  work." 

Hermione  remembered  her  conception  of  Emile  Artois 
long  ago,  when  she  only  knew  him  through  two  books; 
that  she  had  believed  him  to  be  cruel,  that  she  had 
thought  her  nature  must  be  in  opposition  to  his.  Vere 
did  not  know  that  side  of  "Monsieur  Emile." 

"Vere,  it  is  true  you  are  growing  up,"  she  said,  speak- 
ing rather  slowly,  as  if  to  give  herself  time  for  something. 
"Perhaps  I  was  wrong  the  other  day  in  what  I  said. 
You  may  read  Emile's  books  if  you  like." 

364 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Madre!" 

Vere's  face  flushed  with  eager  pleasure. 

"Thank  you,  Madre!" 

She  went  up  to  bed  radiant. 

When  she  had  gone  Hermione  stood  where  she  was. 
She  had  just  done  a  thing  that  was  mean,  or  at  least  she 
had  done  a  thing  from  a  mean,  a  despicable  motive.  She 
knew  it  as  the  door  shut  behind  her  child,  and  she  was 
frightened  of  herself.  Never  before  had  she  been  gov- 
erned by  so  contemptible  a  feeling  as  that  which  had 
just  prompted  her.  If  Emile  ever  knew,  or  even  sus- 
pected what  it  was,  she  felt  that  she  could  never  look 
into  his  face  again  with  clear,  unfaltering  eyes.  "What 
madness  was  upon  her?  What  change  was  working 
within  her?  Revulsion  came,  and  with  it  the  desire  to 
combat  at  once,  strongly,  the  new,  the  hateful  self  which 
had  frightened  her. 

She  hastened  after  Vere,  and  in  a  moment  was  knock- 
ing at  the  child's  door. 

"Who's  there?     Who  is  it?" 

"Vere!"  called  the  mother. 

As  she  called  she  tried  the  door,  and  found  it  locked. 

"Madre!     It's  you!" 

"Yes.     May  I  come  in?" 

"One  tiny  moment." 

The  voice  within  sounded  surely  a  little  startled  and 
uneven,  certainly  not  welcoming.  There  was  a  pause. 
Hermione  heard  the  rustling  of  paper,  then  a  drawer 
shut  sharply. 

Vere  was  hiding  away  her  poems! 

When  Hermione  understood  that,  she  felt  the  strong, 
good  impulse  suddenly  shrivel  within  her,  and  a  bitter 
jealousy  take  its  place.  Vere  came  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

"Oh,  come  in,  Madre!     What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

In  her  bright  eyes  there  was  the  look  of  one  unex- 
365 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

pectedly  disturbed.     Hermione  glanced  quickly  at  the 
writing-table. 

"You — you  weren't  writing  my  note  to  Monsieur 
Emile?"  she  said. 

She  stepped  into  the  room.     She  wished  she  could 
force  Vere  to  tell  her  about  the  poems,  but  without  ask 
ing.     She  felt  as  if  she  could  not  continue  in  her  present 
condition,   excluded  from  Vere's  confidence.     Yet  she 
knew  now  that  she  could  never  plead  for  it. 

"No,  Madre.     I  can  do  it  to-morrow." 

Vere  looked  and  sounded  surprised,  and  the  mother 
felt  more  than  ever  like  an  intruder.  Yet  something 
dogged  kept  her  there. 

"Are  you  tired,  Vere?"  she  asked. 

"Not  a  bit." 

"Then  let  us  have  a  little  talk." 

"Of  course." 

Vere  shut  the  door.  Hermione  knew  by  the  way  she 
shut  it  that  she  wanted  to  be  alone,  to  go  on  with  her 
secret  occupation.  She  came  back  slowly  to  her  mother, 
who  was  sitting  on  a  chair  by  the  bedside.  Hermione 
took  her  hand,  and  Vere  pushed  up  the  edge  of  the 
mosquito-curtain  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"About  those  books  of  Emile's — "  Hermione  began. 

"Oh,  Madre,  you're  not  going  to —  But  you've 
promised ! ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  may?" 

"Why  should  you  wish  to  read  such  books?  They 
will  probably  make  you  sad,  and — and  they  may  even 
make  you  afraid  of  Emile." 

"Afraid!     Why?" 

"I  remember  long  ago,  before  I  knew  him,  I  had  a 
very  wrong  conception  of  him,  gained  from  his  books." 

"Oh,  but  I  know  him  beforehand.  That  makes  all  the 
difference."  . 

366 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"A  man  like  Emile  has  many  sides." 

"I  think  we  all  have,  Madre.     Don't  you?" 

Vere  looked  straight  at  her  mother.  Hermione  felt 
that  a  moment  had  come  in  which,  perhaps,  she  could 
force  the  telling  of  that  truth  which  already  she  knew. 

"I  suppose  so,  Vere;  but  we  need  not  surely  keep  any 
side  hidden  from  those  we  love,  those  who  are  nearest 
to  us." 

Vere  looked  a  little  doubtful — even,  for  a  moment, 
slightly  confused. 

"N — o?"  she  said. 

She  seemed  to  consider  something.     Then  she  added: 

"But  I  think  it  depends.  If  something  in  us  might 
give  pain  to  any  one  we  love,  I  think  we  ought  to  try  to 
hide  that.  I  am  sure  we  ought." 

Hermione  felt  that  each  of  them  was  thinking  of  the 
same  thing,  even  speaking  of  it  without  mentioning  it. 
But  whereas  she  knew  that  Vere  was  doing  so,  Vere 
could  not  know  that  she  was.  So  Vere  was  at  a  disad- 
vantage. Vere's  last  words  had  opened  the  mother's 
eyes.  What  she  had  guessed  was  true.  This  secret  of 
the  poems  was  kept  from  her  because  of  her  own  attempt 
to  create  and  its  failure.  Abruptly  she  wondered  if  Vere 
and  Emile  had  ever  talked  that  failure  over.  At  the 
mere  thought  of  such  a  conversation  her  whole  body 
tingled.  She  got  up  from  her  chair. 

"Well,  good-night,  Vere,"  she  said. 

And  she  left  the  room,  leaving  her  child  amazed. 

Vere  did  not  understand  why  her  mother  had  come, 
nor  why,  having  come,  she  abruptly  went  away.  There 
was  something  the  matter  with  her  mother.  She  had 
felt  that  for  some  time.  She  was  more  conscious  than 
ever  of  it  now.  Around  her  mother  there  was  an  atmos- 
phere of  uneasiness  in  which  she  felt  herself  involved. 
And  she  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the  new  distance  be- 
tween them,  a  distance  daily  growing  wider.  Now  and 

367 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

then,  lately,  she  had  felt  almost  uncomfortable  with  her 
mother,  in  the  sitting-room  when  she  was  saying  good- 
night, and  just  now  when  she  sat  on  the  bed.  Youth  is 
terribly  quick  to  feel  hostility,  however  subtle.  The 
thought  that  her  mother  could  be  hostile  to  her  had 
never  entered  Vere's  head.  Nevertheless,  the  mother's 
faint  and  creeping  hostility — for  at  times  Hermione's 
feeling  was  really  that,  though  she  would  doubtless  have 
denied  it  even  to  herself — disagreeably  affected  the  child. 

"What  can  be  the  matter  with  Madre?"  she  thought. 

She  went  over  to  the  writing-table,  where  she  had 
hastily  shut  up  her  poems  on  hearing  the  knock  at  the 
door,  but  she  did  not  take  them  out  again.  Instead,  she 
sat  down  and  wrote  the  note  to  Monsieur  Emile.  As  she 
wrote  the  sense  of  mystery,  of  uneasiness,  departed  from 
her,  chased  away,  perhaps,  by  the  memory  of  Monsieur 
Emile 's  kindness  to  her  and  warm  encouragement,  by 
the  thought  of  having  a  long  talk  with  him  again,  of 
showing  him  certain  corrections  and  developments  car- 
ried out  by  her  since  she  had  seen  him.  The  sympathy 
of  the  big  man  meant  a  great  deal  to  her,  more  even  than 
he  was  aware  of.  It  lifted  up  her  eager  young  heart. 
It  sent  the  blood  coursing  through  her  veins  with  a  new 
and  ardent  strength.  Hermione's  enthusiasm  had  been 
inherited  by  Vere,  and  with  it  something  else  that  gave 
it  a  peculiar  vitality,  a  power  of  lasting — the  secret  con- 
sciousness of  talent. 

Now,  as  she  wrote  her  letter,  she  forgot  all  her  un- 
easiness, and  her  pen  flew. 

At  last  she  signed  her  name — "Vere." 

She  was  just  going  to  put  the  letter  into  its  envelope 
when  something  struck  her,  and  she  paused.  Then  she 
added: 

"P.S. — Just  now  Madre  gave  me  leave  to  read  your 
books." 


THE  words  of  the  old  Oriental  lingered  in  the  mind 
of  Artois.  He  was  by  nature  more  fatalistic  than 
Hermione,  and  moreover  he  knew  what  she  did  not. 
Long  ago  he  had  striven  against  a  fate.  With  the  help 
of  Gaspare  he  had  conquered  it — or  so  he  had  believed 
till  now.  But  now  he  asked  himself  whether  he  had  not 
only  delayed  its  coming.  If  his  suspicion  were  well 
founded, — and  since  his  last  visit  to  the  island  he  felt 
as  if  it  must  be, — then  surely  all  he  had  done  with 
Gaspare  would  be  in  vain  at  the  last. 

If  his  suspicion  were  well  founded,  then  certain  things 
are  ordained.  They  have  to  happen  for  some  reason, 
known  only  to  the  hidden  Intelligence  that  fashions  each 
man's  character,  that  develops  it  in  joy  or  grief,  that 
makes  it  glad  with  feasting,  or  forces  it  to  feed  upon  the 
bread  of  tears. 

Did  Gaspare  know?  If  the  truth  were  what  Artois 
suspected,  and  Gaspare  did  know  it,  what  would  Gas- 
pare do  ? 

That  was  a  problem  which  interested  Artois  intensely. 

The  Sicilian  often  said  of  a  thing  "E  il  Destino."  Yet 
Artois  believed  that  for  his  beloved  Padrona  he  would 
fight  to  the  death.  He,  Artois,  would  leave  this  fight 
against  destiny  to  the  Sicilian.  For  him  the  Oriental's 
philosophy;  for  him  resignation  to  the  inevitable,  what- 
ever it  might  be. 

He  said  to  himself  that   to  do   more  than  he  had 
369 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

already  done  to  ward  off  the  assaults  of  truth  would  be 
impious.  Perhaps  he  ought  never  to  have  done  any- 
thing. Perhaps  it  would  have  been  far  better  to  have 
let  the  wave  sweep  over  Hermione  long  ago.  Perhaps 
even  in  that  fight  of  his  there  had  been  secret  selfishness, 
the  desire  that  she  should  not  know  how  by  his  cry  from 
Africa  her  happy  life  had  been  destroyed.  And  perhaps 
he  was  to  be  punished  some  day  for  that. 

He  did  not  know.  But  he  felt,  after  all  these  years, 
that  if  to  that  hermitage  of  the  sea  Fate  had  really 
found  the  way  he  must  let  things  take  their  course. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  old  Oriental  had  been 
mysteriously  appointed  to  come  near  him  just  at  that 
moment,  to  make  him  feel  that  this  was  so.  The 
Oriental  had  been  like  a  messenger  sent  to  him  out  of  that 
East  which  he  loved,  which  he  had  studied,  but  from 
which,  perhaps,  he  had  not  learned  enough. 

Vere's  letter  came.  He  read  it  with  eagerness  and 
pleasure  till  he  came  to  the  postcript.  But  that  startled 
him.  He  knew  Vere  had  never  read  his  books.  He 
thought  her  far  too  young  to  read  them.  Till  lately  he 
had  almost  a  contempt  for  those  who  write  with  one 
eye  on  "la  jeune  fille."  Now  he  could  conceive  writing 
with  a  new  pleasure  something  that  Vere  might  read. 
But  those  books  of  his!  Why  had  Hermione  suddenly 
given  that  permission  ?  He  remembered  Peppina.  Vere 
must  have  told  her  mother  of  the  scene  with  Peppina, 
and  how  her  eyes  had  been  opened  to  certain  truths  of 
life,  how  she  had  passed  from  girlhood  to  womanhood 
through  that  gate  of  knowledge.  And  Hermione  must 
have  thought  that  it  was  useless  to  strive  to  keep  Vere 
back. 

But  did  he  wish  Vere  to  read  all  that  he  had  written  ? 

On  Thursday  he  went  over  to  the  island  with  mingled 
eagerness  and  reluctance.  That  little  home  in  the  sea, 

37° 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

washed  by  blue  waters,  roofed  by  blue  skies,  sun-kissed 
and  star-kissed  by  day  and  night,  drew  and  repelled  him. 
There  was  the  gr^,ciousness  of  youth  there,  of  youth  and 
promise ;  but  there  was  tragedy  there,  too,  in  the  heart 
of  Hermione,  and  in  Peppina,  typified  by  the  cross  upon 
her  cheek.  And  does  not  like  draw  like  ? 

For  a  moment  he  saw  the  little  island  with  a  great 
cloud  above  it.  But  when  he  landed  and  met  Vere  he 
felt  the  summer,  and  knew  that  the  sky  was  clear. 

Hermione  was  not  on  the  island,  Vere  told  him.  She 
had  left  many  apologies,  and  would  be  home  for  lunch. 
She  had  had  to  go  in  to  Naples  to  see  the  dentist.  A 
tooth  had  troubled  her  in  the  night.  She  had  gone  by 
tram.  As  Vere  explained  Artois  had  a  moment  of  sur- 
prise, a  moment  of  suspicion — even  of  vexation.  But  it 
passed  when  Vere  said: 

"I'm  afraid  poor  Madre  suffered  a  great  deal.  She 
looked  dreadful  this  morning,  as  if  she  hadn't  slept  all 
night." 

"Poveretta!"  said  Artois. 

He  looked  earnestly  at  Vere.  This  was  the  first  time 
they  had  met  since  the  revelation  of  Peppina.  What  the 
Marchesino  had  seen  Artois  saw  more  plainly,  felt  more 
strongly  than  the  young  Neapolitan  had  felt.  But  he 
looked  at  Vere,  too,  in  search  of  something  else,  thinking 
of  Ruffo,  trying  to  probe  into  the  depth  of  human  mys- 
teries, to  find  the  secret  spring  that  carried  child  to  child. 

"What  do  you  want,  Monsieur  Emile?" 

"I  want  to  know  how  the  work  goes,"  he  answered, 
smiling. 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"And  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  he  added.  "My 
talk  with  you  roused  me  up.  Vere,  you  set  me  working 
as  I  have  not  worked  for  a  long  while." 

A  lively  pleasure  showed  in  her  face. 

"Is  that  really  true?  But  then  I  must  be  careful,  or 

371 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

you  will  never  come  to  see  us  any  more.  You  will  al- 
ways be  shut  up  in  the  hotel  writing." 

They  mounted  the  cliff  together  arfd,  without  ques- 
tion or  reply,  as  by  a  mutual  instinct,  turned  towards 
the  seat  that  faced  Ischia,  clear  to-day,  yet  romantic 
with  the  mystery  of  heat.  When  they  had  sat  down 
Vere  added: 

"And  besides,  of  course  I  know  that  it  is  Madre  who 
encourages  you  when  you  are  depressed  about  your  work. 
I  have  heard  you  say  so  often." 

"Your  mother  has  done  a  great  deal  for  me,"  said 
Artois,  seriously — "far  more  than  she  will  ever  know." 

There  was  a  sound  of  deep,  surely  of  eternal  feeling  in 
his  voice,  which  suddenly  touched  the  girl  to  the  quick. 

"I  like  to  hear  you  say  that — like  that,"  she  said, 
softly.  "I  think  Madre  does  a  great  deal  for  us  all." 

If  Hermione  could  have  heard  them  her  torn  heart 
might  perhaps  have  ceased  to  bleed.  It  had  been  difficult 
for  her  to  do  what  she  had  done — to  leave  the  island  that 
morning.  She  had  done  it  to  discipline  her  nature,  as 
Passionists  scourge  themselves  by  night  before  the  altar. 
She  had  left  Emile  alone  with  Vere  simply  because  she 
hated  to  do  it. 

The  rising  up  of  jealousy  in  her  heart  had  frightened 
her.  All  night  she  had  lain  awake  feeling  this  new  and 
terrible  emanation  from  her  soul,  conscious  of  this 
monster  that  lifted  up  its  head  and  thrust  it  forth  out 
of  the  darkness. 

But  one  merit  she  had.  She  was  frank  with  herself. 
She  named  the  monster  before  she  strove  to  fight  it,  to 
beat  it  back  into  the  darkness  from  which  is  was  emerg- 
ing. 

She  was  jealous,  doubly  jealous.  The  monopolizing 
instinct  of  strong-natured  and  deeply  affectionate  women 
was  fiercely  alive  in  her.  Always,  no  doubt,  she  had 
had  it.  Long  ago,  when  first  she  was  in  Sicily  alone, 

372 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

she  had  dreamed  of  a  love  in  the  South — far  away  from 
the  world.  When  she  married  she  had  carried  her 
Mercury  to  the  exquisite  isolation  of  Monte  Amato. 
And  when  that  love  was  taken  from  her,  and  her  child 
came  and  was  at  the  age  of  blossom,  she  had  brought 
her  child  to  this  isle,  this  hermitage  of  the  sea.  Emile, 
too,  her  one  great  friend,  she  had  never  wished  to  share 
him.  She  had  never  cared  much  to  meet  him  in  society. 
Her  instinct  was  to  have  him  to  herself,  to  be  with  him 
alone  in  unfrequented  places.  She  was  greedy  or  she 
was  timid.  Which  was  it?  Perhaps  she  lacked  self- 
confidence,  belief  in  her  own  attractive  power.  Life  in 
the  world  is  a  fight.  Women  fight  for  their  lovers,  fight 
for  their  friends,  with  other  women:  those  many  women 
who  are  born  thieves,  who  are  never  happy  unless  they 
are  taking  from  their  sisters  the  possessions  those  sisters 
care  for  most.  Hermione  could  never  have  fought  with 
other  women  for  the  love  or  the  friendship  of  a  man. 
Her  instinct,  perhaps,  was  to  carry  her  treasure  out  of 
all  danger  into  the  wilderness. 

Two  treasures  she  had — Vere  her  child,  Emile  her 
friend.  And  now  she  was  jealous  of  each  with  the 
other.  And  the  enormous  difference  in  their  ages  made 
her  jealousy  seem  the  more  degrading.  Nevertheless, 
she  could  not  feel  that  it  was  unnatural.  By  a  mutual 
act  they  had  excluded  her  from  their  lives,  had  with- 
drawn from  her  their  confidence  while  giving  it  to  each 
other.  And  their  reason  for  doing  this — she  was  sure 
of  it  now — was  her  own  failure  to  do  something  in  the 
world  of  art. 

She  was  jealous  of  Vere  because  of  that  confidence 
given  to  Emile,  and  of  Emile  because  of  his  secret  advice 
and  help  to  Vere — advice  and  help  which  he  had  not 
given  to  the  mother,  because  he  had  plainly  seen  that 
to  do  so  would  be  useless. 

And  when  she  remembered  this  Hermione  was  jealous, 

373 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

too,  of  the  talent  Vere  must  have,  a  talent  she  had  longed 
for,  but  which  had  been  denied  to  her.  For  even  if 
Emile  .  .  .  and  then  again  came  the  most  hateful  suspi- 
cion of  all — but  Emile  could  not  lie  about  the  things  of 
art. 

Had  they  spoken  together  of  her  failure  ?  Again  and 
again  she  asked  herself  the  question.  They  must  have 
spoken.  They  had  spoken.  She  could  almost  hear 
their  words — words  of  regret  or  of  pity.  "We  must  not 
hurt  her.  We  must  keep  it  from  her.  We  must  temper 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb."  The  elderly  man  and  the 
child  had  read  together  the  secret  of  her  suffering,  had 
understood  together  the  tragedy  of  her  failure.  To  the 
extremes  of  life,  youth  and  age,  she  had  appeared  an 
object  of  pity. 

And  then  she  thought  of  her  dead  husband's  rever- 
ence of  her  intellect,  boyish  admiration  to  her  mental 
gifts;  and  an  agony  of  longing  for  his  love  swept  over 
her  again,  and  she  felt  that  he  was  the  only  person  who 
had  been  able  to  love  her  really,  and  that  now  he  was 
gone  there  was  no  one. 

At  that  moment  she  forgot  Gaspare.  Her  sense  of 
being  abandoned,  and  of  being  humiliated,  swept  out 
many  things  from  her  memory.  Only  Maurice  had 
loved  her  really.  Only  he  had  set  her  on  high,  where 
even  the  humblest  woman  longs  to  be  set  by  some  one. 
Only  he  had  thought  her  better,  braver,  more  worship- 
ful, more  lovable,  than  any  other  woman.  Such  love, 
without  bringing  conceit  to  the  creature  loved,  gives 
power,  creates  much  of  what  it  believes  in.  The  lack 
of  any  such  love  seems  to  withdraw  the  little  power 
that  there  is. 

Hermione,  feeling  in  this  humiliation  of  the  imagina- 
tion that  she  was  less  than  nothing,  clung  desperately 
to  the  memory  of  him  who  had  thought  her  much.  The 
dividing  years  were  gone.  With  a  strange,  a  beautiful 

374 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  terrible  freshness,  the  days  of  her  love  came  back. 
She  saw  Maurice's  eyes  looking  at  her  with  that  simple, 
almost  reverent  admiration  which  she  had  smiled  at  and 
adored. 

And  she  gripped  her  memory.  She  clung  to  it  fe- 
verishly as  she  had  never  clung  to  it  before.  She  told 
herself  that  she  would  live  in  it  as  in  a  house  of  shelter. 
For  there  was  the  desolate  wind  outside. 

And  she  thought  much  of  Ruffo,  and  with  a  strange 
desire — to  be  with  him,  to  search  for  the  look  she  loved 
in  him.  For  a  moment  with  him  she  had  seemed  to  see 
her  Mercury  in  the  flesh.  She  must  watch  for  his  re- 
turn. 

When  the  morning  came  she  began  her  fight.  She 
made  her  excuse,  and  left  the  morning  free  for  Emile 
to  be  with  Vere. 

Two  dreary  hours  she  spent  in  Naples.  The  buzzing 
city  affected  her  like  a  nightmare.  Coming  back  through 
Mergellina,  she  eagerly  looked  for  Ruffo.  But  she  did 
not  see  him.  Nor  had  she  seen  him  in  the  early  morning, 
when  she  passed  by  the  harbor  where  the  yachts  were 
lying  in  the  sun. 

Gaspare  came  with  the  boat  to  take  her  over  from  the 
nearest  village  to  the  island. 

"  Don  Emilio  has  come  ?"  she  asked  him,  as  she  stepped 
into  the  boat. 

"  SI,  Signora.  He  has  been  on  the  island  a  long 
time." 

Gaspare  sat  down  facing  his  Padrona  and  took  the 
oars.  As  he  rowed  the  boat  out  past  the  ruined  "  Palace 
of  the  Spirits"  he  looked  at  Hermione,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  his  eyes  pitied  her. 

Could  Gaspare  see  what  she  was  feeling,  her  humilia- 
tion, her  secret  jealousy?  She  felt  as  if  she  were  made 
of  glass.  But  she  returned  his  gaze  almost  sternly,  and 
said: 

375 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"What's  the  matter,  Gaspare?  Why  do  you  look  at 
me  like  that?" 

"Signora!" 

He  seemed  startled,  and  slightly  reddened,  then  looked 
hurt  and  almost  sulky. 

"May  I  not  look  at  you,  Signora?"  he  asked,  rather 
defiantly.  "Have  I  the  evil  eye?" 

"No — no,  Gaspare!  Only — only  you  looked  at  me 
as  if  something  were  the  matter.  Do  I  look  ill?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  a  forced  lightness,  with  a 
smile.  He  answered,  bluntly: 

"Si,  Signora.     You  look  very  ill." 

She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  face  instinctively,  as  if  to 
feel  whether  his  words  were  true. 

"But  I'm  perfectly  well,"  she  said. 

"You  look  very  ill,  Signora,"  he  returned. 

"I'm  a  little  bit  tired,  perhaps." 

He  said  no  more,  and  rowed  steadily  on  for  a  while. 
But  presently  she  found  him  looking  gravely  at  her 
again. 

"Signora,"  he  began,  "the  Signorina  loves  the  island." 

"Yes,  Gaspare." 

"Do  you  love  it?" 

The  question  startled  her.  Had  he  read  her  thoughts 
in  the  last  days? 

"Don't  you  think  I  love  it?"  she  asked. 

"You  go  away  from  it  very  often,  Signora." 

"But  I  must  occasionally  go  in  to  Naples!"  she  pro- 
tested. 

"Si,  Signora." 

"Well,  but  mustn't  I?" 

"Non  lo  so,  Signora.  Perhaps  we  have  been  here  long 
enough.  Perhaps  we  had  better  go  away  from  here." 

He  spoke  slowly,  and  with  something  less  than  his 
usual  firmness,  as  if  in  his  mind  there  was  uncertainty, 
some  indecision  or  some  conflict  of  desires. 

376 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Do  you  want  to  go  away?"  she  said. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  want,  Signora." 

"  I  don't  think  the  Signorina  would  like  to  go,  Gaspare. 
She  hates  the  idea  of  leaving  the  island." 

"The  Signorina  is  not  every  one,"  he  returned. 

Habitually  blunt  as  Gaspare  was,  Hermione  had  never 
before  heard  him  speak  of  Vere  like  this,  not  with  the 
least  impertinence,  but  with  a  certain  roughness.  To-day 
it  did  not  hurt  her.  Nor,  indeed,  could  it  ever  have  hurt 
her,  coming  from  one  so  proven  as  Gaspare.  But  to-day 
it  even  warmed  her,  for  it  made  her  feel  that  some  one 
was  thinking  exclusively  of  her — was  putting  her  first. 
She  longed  for  some  expression  of  affection  from  some 
one.  She  felt  that  she  was  starving  for  it.  And  this 
feeling  made  her  say: 

"How  do  you  mean,  Gaspare?" 

"Signora,  it  is  for  you  to  say  whether  we  shall  go 
away  or  stay  here." 

"You — you  put  me  first,  Gaspare?" 

She  was  ashamed  of  herself  for  saying  it.  But  she  had 
to  say  it. 

"First,  Signora?     Of  course  you  are  first." 

He  looked  genuinely  surprised. 

"Are  you  not  the  Padrona?"  he  added.  "It  is  for 
you  to  command." 

"Yes.     But  I  don't  quite  mean  that." 

She  stopped.     But  she  had  to  go  on: 

"I  mean,  would  you  rather  do  what  I  wanted  than 
what  any  one  else  wanted?" 

"SI,  Signora — much  rather." 

There  was  more  in  his  voice  than  in  his  words. 

"Thank  you,  Gaspare,"  she  said. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  "if  you  think  we  had  better  leave 
the  island,  let  us  leave  it.  Let  us  go  away." 

"Well,  but  I  have  never  said  I  wished  to  go.  I  am — " 
she  paused.  "I  have  been  very  contented  to  be  here." 

377 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Vabene,  Signora." 

When  they  reached  the  island  Hermione  felt  nervous — 
almost  as  if  she  were  to  meet  strangers  who  were  critical, 
who  would  appraise  her  and  be  ready  to  despise  her. 
She  told  herself  that  she  was  mad  to  feel  like  that;  but 
when  she  thought  of  Emile  and  Vere  talking  of  her  fail- 
ure— of  their  secret  combined  action  to  keep  from  her 
the  knowledge  of  the  effort  of  the  child — that  seemed 
just  then  to  her  a  successful  rivalry  concealed — she  could 
not  dismiss  the  feeling. 

She  dreaded  to  meet  Emile  and  Vere. 

"I  wonder  where  they  are,"  she  said,  as  she  got  out. 
"Perhaps  they  are  on  the  cliff,  or  out  in  the  little  boat. 
I'll  go  into  the  house." 

"Signora,  I  will  go  to  the  seat  and  see  if  they  are 
there." 

"Oh,  don't  bother — "  she  began. 

But  he  ran  off,  springing  up  the  steps  with  a  strong 
agility,  like  that  of  a  boy. 

She  hurried  after  him  and  went  into  the  house.  After 
what  he  had  said  in  the  boat  she  wished  to  look  at  her- 
self in  the  glass,  to  see  if  there  was  anything  strange  or 
painful,  anything  that  might  rouse  surprise,  in  her  ap- 
pearance. She  gained  her  bedroom,  and  went  at  once 
to  the  mirror. 

Hermione  was  not  by  nature  at  all  a  self-conscious 
woman.  She  knew  that  she  was  plain,  and  had  some- 
times, very  simply,  regretted  it.  But  she  did  not  gen- 
erally think  about  her  appearance,  and  very  seldom 
now  wondered  what  others  were  thinking  of  it.  When 
Maurice  had  been  with  her  she  had  often  indeed  secretly 
compared  her  ugliness  with  his  beauty.  But  a  great 
love  breeds  many  regrets  as  well  as  many  joys.  And 
that  was  long  ago.  It  was  years  since  she  had  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass  with  any  keen  feminine  anxiety, 
any  tremor  of  fear,  or  any  cruel  self-criticism.  But  now 

378 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

she  stood  for  a  long  time  before  the  glass,  quite  still, 
looking  at  her  reflection  with  wide,  almost  with  staring, 
eyes. 

It  was  true  what  Gaspare  said.  She  saw  that  she  was 
looking  ill,  very  different  from  her  usual  strong  self. 
There  was  not  a  thread  of  white  in  her  thick  hair,  and 
this  fact,  combined  with  the  eagerness  of  her  expression, 
the  strong  vivacity  and  intelligence  that  normally  shone 
in  her  eyes,  deceived  many  people  as  to  her  age.  But 
to-day  her  face  was  strained,  haggard,  and  feverish. 
Under  the  brown  tint  that  the  sunrays  had  given  to  her 
complexion  there  seemed  to  lurk  a  sickly  white,  which 
was  most  markedly  suggested  at  the  corners  of  the 
mouth.  The  cheek-bones  seemed  unusually  prominent. 
And  the  eyes  held  surely  a  depth  of  uneasiness,  of — • 

Hermiohe  approached  her  face  to  the  mirror  till  it 
almost  touched  the  glass.  The  reflected  eyes  drew  hers. 
She  gazed  into  them  with  a  scrutiny  into  which  she  seem- 
ed to  be  pouring  her  whole  force,  both  of  soul  and  body. 
She  was  trying  to  look  at  her  natxire,  to  see  its  shape, 
its  color,  its  expression,  so  that  she  might  judge  of  what 
it  was  capable — whether  for  good  or  evil.  The  eyes 
into  which  she  looked  both  helped  her  and  frustrated 
her.  They  told  her  much — too  much.  And  yet  they 
baffled  her.  When  she  would  know  all,  they  seemed 
to  substitute  themselves  for  that  which  she  saw  through 
them,  and  she  found  herself  noticing  their  size,  their  prom- 
inence, the  exact  shade  of  their  brown  hue.  And  the 
quick  human  creature  behind  them  was  hidden  from  her. 

But  Gaspare  was  right.  She  did  look  ill.  Emile  would 
notice  it  directly. 

She  washed  her  face  with  cold  water,  then  dried  it 
almost  cruelly  with  a  rough  towel.  Having  done  this, 
she  did  not  look  again  into  the  glass,  but  went  at  once 
down-stairs.  As  she  came  into  the  drawing-room  she 
heard  voices  in  the  garden.  She  stood  still  and  listened. 
'5  379 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

They  were  the  voices  of  Vere  and  Emile  talking  tirelessly. 
She  could  not  hear  what  they  said.  Had  she  been  able 
to  hear  it  she  would  not  have  listened.  She  could  only 
hear  the  sound  made  by  their  voices,  that  noise  by  which 
human  beings  strive  to  explain,  or  to  conceal,  what  they 
really  are.  They  were  talking  seriously.  She  heard 
no  sounds  of  laughter.  Vere  was  saying  most.  It 
seemed  to  Hermione  that  Vere  never  talked  so  much 
and  so  eagerly  to  her,  with  such  a  ceaseless  vivacity. 
And  there  was  surely  an  intimate  sound  in  her  voice,  a 
sound  of  being  warmly  at  ease,  as  if  she  spoke  in  an 
atmosphere  of  ardent  sympathy. 

Again  the  jealousy  came  in  Hermione,  acute,  fierce, 
and  travelling — like  a  needle  being  moved  steadily,  point 
downwards,  through  a  network  of  quivering  nerves. 

"Vere!"  she  called  out.     "Vere!     Emile!" 

Was  her  voice  odd,  startling? 

They  did  not  hear  her.  Emile  was  speaking  now. 
She  heard  the  deep,  booming  sound  of  his  powerful  voice, 
that  seemed  expressive  of  strength  and  will. 

"Vere!     Emile!" 

As  she  called  again  she  went  towards  the  window. 
She  felt  passionately  excited.  The  excitement  had  come 
suddenly  to  her  when  they  had  not  heard  her  first  call 

"Emile!     Emile!"  she  repeated.     "Emile!" 

"Madre!" 

"Hermione!" 

Both  voices  sounded  startled. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Vere  appeared  at  the  window,  looking  frightened. 

"Hermione,  what  is  it?" 

Emile  was  there  beside  her.  And  he,  too,  looked  anx- 
ious, almost  alarmed. 

"I  only  wanted  to  let  you  know  I  had  come  back," 
said  Hermione,  crushing  down  her  excitement  and  forc- 
ing herself  to  smile. 

380 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"But  why  did  you  call  like  that?" 

Vere  spoke. 

"Like  what?     What  do  you  mean,  figlia  mia?" 

"It  sounded — " 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  Artois. 

"It  frightened  me.     And  you,  Monsieur  Emile?" 

"I,  too,  was  afraid  for  a  moment  that  something  un- 
pleasant had  happened." 

"You  nervous  people!     Isn't  it  lunch-time?" 

As  they  looked  at  her  she  felt  they  had  been  talking 
about  her,  about  her  failure.  And  she  felt,  too,  as  if 
they  must  be  able  to  see  in  her  eyes  that  she  knew  the 
secret  Vere  had  wished  to  keep  from  her  and  thought 
she  did  not  know.  Emile  had  given  her  a  glance  of  in- 
tense scrutiny,  and  the  eyes  of  her  child  still  questioned 
her  with  a  sort  of  bright  and  searching  eagerness. 

"You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  with  detectives,"  she 
said,  laughing,  but  uneasily.  "There's  really  nothing 
the  matter." 

"And  your  tooth,  Madre?     Is  it  better?" 

"Yes,  quite  well.  I  am  perfectly  well.  Let  us  go 
in." 

Hermione  had  said  to  herself  that  if  she  could  see 
Emile  and  Vere  together,  without  any  third  person,  she 
would  know  something  that  she  felt  she  must  know. 
When  she  was  with  them  she  meant  to  be  a  watcher. 
And  now  her  whole  being  was  strung  to  attention.  But 
it  seemed  to  her  that  for  some  reason  they,  too,  were 
on  the  alert,  and  so  were  not  quite  natural.  And  she 
could  not  be  sure  of  certain  things  unless  the  atmosphere 
was  normal.  So  she  said  to  herself  now,  though  before 
she  had  had  the  inimitable  confidence  of  woman  in  cer- 
tain detective  instincts  claimed  by  the  whole  sex.  At 
one  moment  the  thing  she  feared — and  her  whole  being 
recoiled  from  the  thought  of  it  with  a  shaking  disgust—- 
the thing  she  feared  seemed  to  her  fact.  Then  some- 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

thing  occurred  to  make  her  distrust  herself.  And  she 
felt  that  betraying  imagination  of  hers  at  work,  obscur- 
ing all  issues,  tricking  her,  punishing  her. 

And  when  the  meal  was  over  she  did  not  know  at  all. 
And  she  felt  as  if  she  had  perhaps  been  deliberately 
baffled — not,  of  course,  by  Vere,  of  whose  attitude  she 
was  not,  and  never  had  been,  doubtful,  but  by  Emile. 

When  they  got  up  from  the  table  Vere  said: 

"I'm  going  to  take  the  siesta." 

"You  look  remarkably  wide  awake,  Vere,"  Artois  said, 
smiling. 

"But  I'm  going  to,  because  I've  had  you  all  to  myself 
the  whole  morning.  Now  it's  Madre's  turn.  Isn't  it, 
Madre?" 

The  girl's  remark  showed  her  sense  of  their  complete 
triple  intimacy,  but  it  emphasized  to  Hermione  her  own 
cruel  sense  of  being  in  the  wilderness.  And  she  even 
felt  vexed  that  it  should  be  supposed  she  wanted  Emile 's 
company.  Nevertheless,  she  restrained  herself  from 
making  any  disclaimer.  Vere  went  up-stairs,  and  she 
and  Artois  went  out  and  sat  down  under  the  trellis. 
But  with  the  removal  of  Vere  a  protection  and  safety- 
valve  seemed  to  be  removed,  and  neither  Hermione  nor 
Emile  could  for  a  moment  continue  the  conversation. 
Again  a  sense  of  humiliation,  of  being  mindless,  nothing, 
in  the  eyes  of  Artois  came  to  Hermione,  diminishing  all 
her  powers.  She  was  never  a  conceited,  but  she  had 
often  been  a  self-reliant  woman.  Now  she  felt  a  hum- 
bleness such  as  she  knew  no  one  should  ever  feel — a 
humbleness  that  was  contemptible,  that  felt  itself  in- 
capable, unworthy  of  notice.  She  tried  to  resist  it, 
but  when  she  thought  of  this  man,  her  friend,  talking 
over  her  failure  with  her  child,  in  whom  he  must  surely 
believe,  she  could  not.  She  felt  "Vere  can  talk  to  Emile 
better  than  I  can.  She  interests  him  more  than  I." 
And  then  her  years  seemed  to  gather  round  her  and 

382 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

whip  her.  She  shrank  beneath  the  thongs  of  age.  which 
had  not  even  brought  to  her  those  gifts  of  the  mind  with 
which  it  often  partially  replaces  the  bodily  gifts  and 
graces  it  is  so  eager  to  remove. 

"Hermione!" 

"Yes.Emile." 

She  turned  slowly  in  her  chair,  forcing  herself  to  face 
him. 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  not  feeling  ill?" 

"Quite  sure.  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  morning  with 
Vere?" 

"Yes.  Oh" — he  sat  forward  in  his  chair — -"she  told 
me  something  that  rather  surprised  me — that  you  had 
told  her  she  might  read  my  books." 

"Well?" 

Hermione 's  voice  was  rather  hard. 

"Well,  I  never  meant  them  for  'la  jeune  fille.'" 

"You  consider  Vere — " 

"Is  she  not?" 

She  felt  he  was  condemning  her  secretly  for  her  per- 
mission to  Vere.  What  would  he  think  if  he  knew  her 
under-reason  for  giving  it? 

"You  don't  wish  Vere  to  read  your  books,  then?" 

"No.     And  I  ventured  to  tell  her  so." 

Hermione  felt  hot. 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  she  would  not  read  them." 

"Oh." 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes,  and  was  sure  she  read 
condemnation  in  them. 

"After  I  had  told  Vere — "  she  began. 

She  was  about  to  defend  herself,  to  tell  him  how  she 
had  gone  to  Vere's  room  intending  to  withdraw  the  per- 
mission given;  but  suddenly  she  realized  clearly  that 
she,  a  mother,  was  being  secretly  taken  to  task  by  a 
man  for  her  conduct  to  her  child. 

383 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

That  was  intolerable. 

And  Vere  had  yielded  to  Emile's  prohibition,  though 
she  had  eagerly  resisted  her  mother's  attempt  to  re- 
treat from  the  promise  made.  That  was  more  intol- 
erable. 

She  sat  still  without  saying  anything.  Her  knees  were 
trembling  under  her  thin  summer  gown.  Artois  felt 
something  of  her  agitation,  perhaps,  for  he  said,  with  a 
kind  of  hesitating  diffidence,  very  rare  in  him: 

"Of  course,  my  friend,  I  would  not  interfere  between 
you  and  Vere,  only,  as  I  was  concerned,  as  they  were 
my  own  writings  that  were  in  question — "  He  broke 
off.  "You  won't  misunderstand  my  motives?"  he  con- 
cluded. 

"Oh  no." 

He  was  more  conscious  that  she  was  feeling  something 
acutely. 

"I  feel  that  I  perfectly  understand  why  you  gave  the 
permission  at  this  particular  moment,"  he  continued, 
anxious  to  excuse  her  to  herself  and  to  himself. 

"Why?"  Hermione  said,  sharply. 

"Wasn't  it  because  of  Peppina?" 

"Peppina?" 

"Yes;  didn't  you— " 

He  looked  into  her  face  and  saw  at  once  that  he  had 
made  a  false  step,  that  Vere  had  not  told  her  mother  of 
Peppina's  outburst. 

"Didn't  I— what?" 

He  still  looked  at  her. 

"What?"  she  repeated.  "What  has  Peppina  to  do 
with  it?" 

"Nothing.  Only — don't  you  remember  what  you 
said  to  me  about  not  keeping  Vere  in  cotton- wool  ?" 

She  knew  that  he  was  deceiving  her.  A  hopeless, 
desperate  feeling  of  being  in  the  dark  rushed  over  her. 
What  was  friendship  without  complete  sincerity?  Noth- 

384 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ing — less  than  nothing.  She  felt  as  if  her  whole  body 
stiffened  with  a  proud  reserve  to  meet  the  reserve  with 
which  he  treated  her.  And  she  felt  as  if  her  friend  of 
years,  the  friend  whose  life  she  had  perhaps  saved  in 
Africa,  had  turned  in  that  moment  into  a  stranger,  or 
— or  even  into  an  enemy.  For  this  furtive  withdrawal 
from  their  beautiful  and  open  intimacy  was  like  an 
act  of  hostility.  She  was  almost  dazed  for  an  instant. 
Then  her  brain  worked  with  feverish  activity.  What 
had  Emile  meant  ?  Her  permission  to  Vere  was  con- 
nected in  his  mind  with  Peppina.  He  must  know  some- 
thing about  Vere  and  Peppina  that  she  did  not  know. 
She  looked  at  him,  and  her  face,  usually  so  sensitive,  so 
receptive,  so  warmly  benign  when  it  was  turned  to  his, 
was  hard  and  cold. 

"Emile,"  she  said,  "what  was  it  you  meant  about 
Peppina?  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  know.  I  brought 
her  into  the  house.  Why  should  Peppina  have  anything 
to  do  with  my  giving  Vere  permission  to  read  your 
books?" 

Artois'  instinct  was  not  to  tell  what  Vere  had  not  told, 
and  therefore  had  not  wished  to  be  known.  Yet  he 
hated  to  shuffle  with  Hermione.  He  chose  a  middle 
course. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  quietly,  but  with  determination, 
"I  made  a  mistake.  I  was  following  foolishly  a  wrong 
track.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  But  do  not  be 
angry  with  me  about  the  books.  I  think  my  motive  in 
speaking  as  I  did  to  Vere  was  probably  partly  a  selfish 
one.  It  is  not  only  that  I  wish  Vere  to  be  as  she  is  for 
as  long  a  time  as  possible,  but  that  I — well,  don't  think 
me  a  great  coward  if  I  say  that  I  almost  dread  her  dis- 
covery of  all  the  cruel  knowledge  that  is  mine,  and  that  I 
have,  perhaps  wrongly,  brought  to  the  attention  of  the 
world." 

Hermione  was  amazed. 

385 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"You  regret  having  written  your  books!"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know.  But  I  think  the 
happy  confidence,  the  sweet  respect  of  youth,  makes 
one  regret  a  thousand  things.  Don't  you,  Hermione? 
Don't  you  think  youth  is  often  the  most  terrible  tutor 
age  can  have?" 

She  thought  of  Ruffo  singing,  "Oh,  dolce  luna  bi- 
anca  de  1'  Estate" — and  suddenly  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  stay  any  longer  with  Artois  just  then.  She 
got  up. 

"I  don't  feel  very  well,"  she  said. 

Artois  sprang  up  and  came  towards  her  with  a  face 
full  of  concern.  But  she  drew  back. 

"I  didn't  sleep  last  night  —  and  then  going  into 
Naples —  I'll  go  to  my  room  and  lie  down.  I'll  keep 
quiet.  Vere  will  look  after  you.  I'll  be  down  at  tea." 

She  went  away  before  he  could  say  or  do  anything. 
For  some  time  he  was  alone.  Then  Vere  came.  Her- 
mione had  not  told  her  of  this  episode,  and  she  had 
only  come  because  she  thought  the  pretended  siesta 
had  lasted  long  enough.  When  Artois  told  her  about 
her  mother,  she  wanted  to  run  away  at  once,  and  see 
what  was  the  matter — see  if  she  could  do  something. 
But  Artois  stopped  her. 

"I  should  leave  her  to  rest,"  he  said.  "I — I  feel  sure 
she  wishes  to  be  alone." 

Vere  was  looking  at  him  while  he  spoke,  and  her  face 
caught  the  gravity  of  his,  reflected  it  for  a  moment,  then 
showed  an  uneasiness  that  deepened  into  fear.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Monsieur  Emile,  what  is  the  matter  with  Madre?" 

"Only  a  headache,  I  fancy.  She  did  not  sleep  last 
night,  and — " 

"No,  no:  the  real  matter,  Monsieur  Emile." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Vere?" 

The  girl  looked  excited.  Her  own  words  had  revealed 

386 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

to  her  a  feeling  of  which  till  then  she  had  only  been 
vaguely  aware. 

"Madre  has  seemed  different  lately,"  she  said — "been 
different.  I  am  sure  she  has.  What  is  it?" 

As  the  girl  spoke,  and  looked  keenly  at  him  with  her 
bright,  searching  eyes,  a  thought  came,  like  a  flash,  upon 
Artois  —  a  thought  that  almost  frightened  him.  He 
could  not  tell  it  to  Vere,  and  almost  immediately  he 
thrust  it  away  from  his  mind.  But  Vere  had  seen 
that  something  had  come  to  him. 

"You  know  what  it  is!"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Monsieur  Emile!" 

Her  voice  was  full  of  reproach. 

"Vere,  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,"  he  said,  earnestly. 
"If  there  is  anything  serious  troubling  your  mother 
I  do  not  know  what  it  is.  She  has  sorrows,  of  course. 
You  know  that." 

' '  This  is  something  fresh , ' '  the  girl  said .  She  thrust  for- 
ward her  little  chin  decisively.  ' '  This  is  something  new. ' ' 

"It  cannot  be  that,"  Artois  said  to  himself.  "It 
cannot  be  that." 

To  Vere  he  said:  "Sleeplessness  is  terribly  distressing." 

"Well — but  only  one  night." 

"Perhaps  there  have  been  others." 

In  reply  Vere  said: 

"Monsieur  Emile,  you  remember  this  morning,  when 
we  were  in  the  garden,  and  mother  called?" 

"Yes." 

"D'you  know,  the  way  she  called  made  me  feel 
frightened?" 

"We  were  so  busy  talking  that  the  sudden  sound 
startled  us." 

"No,  it  wasn't  that." 

"But  when  we  came  your  mother  was  smiling — she 
was  perfectly  well.  You  let  your  imagination — " 

387 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"No,  Monsieur  Emile,  indeed  I  don't." 

He  did  not  try  any  more  to  remove  her  impression. 
He  saw  that  to  do  so  would  be  quite  useless. 

"I  should  like  to  speak  to  Gaspare,"  Vere  said,  after 
a  moment's  thought. 

"Gaspare!     Why?" 

"Perhaps  you  will  laugh  at  me!  But  I  often  think 
Gaspare  understands  Madre  better  than  any  of  us, 
Monsieur  Emile." 

"Gaspare  has  been  with  your  mother  a  very  long  time." 

"Yes,  and  in  his  way  he  is  very  clever.  Haven't  you 
noticed  it?" 

Artois  did  not  answer  this.     But  he  said: 

"Follow  your  instincts,  Vere.  I  don't  think  they 
will  often  lead  you  wrong." 

At  tea-time  Hermione  came  from  her  bedroom  look- 
ing calm  and  smiling.  There  was  something  deliberate 
about  her  serenity,  and  her  eyes  were  tired,  but  she  said 
the  little  rest  had  done  her  good.  Vere  instinctively  felt 
that  her  mother  did  not  wish  to  be  observed,  or  to  have 
any  fuss  made  about  her  condition,  and  Artois  took 
Vere's  cue.  When  tea  was  over,  Artois  said: 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  going." 

"Oh  no,"  Hermione  said.  "We  asked  you  for  a  long 
day.  That  means  dinner." 

The  cordiality  in  her  voice  sounded  determined,  and 
therefore  formal.  Artois  felt  chilled.  For  a  moment 
he  looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"Well,  but,  Hermione,  you  aren't  feeling  very  well." 

"I  am  much  better  now.  Do  stay.  I  shall  rest,  and 
Vere  will  take  care  of  you." 

It  struck  him  for  the  first  time  that  she  was  becoming 
very  ready  to  substitute  Vere  for  herself  as  his  com- 
panion. He  wondered  if  he  had  really  offended  or  hurt 
her  in  any  way.  He  even  wondered  for  a  moment 
whether  she  was  not  pleased  at  his  spending  the  summer 

388 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

in  Naples — whether,  for  some  reason,  she  had  wished, 
and  still  wished,  to  be  alone  with  Vere. 

"Perhaps  Vere  will  get  sick  of  looking  after  an — an 
old  man,"  he  said. 

"You  are  not  an  old  man,  Monsieur  Emile.  Don't 
tout!" 

"Tout?" 

"Yes,  for  compliments  about  your  youth.  You  meant 
me,  you  meant  us  both,  to  say  how  young  you  are." 

She  spoke  gayly,  laughingly,  but  he  felt  she  was 
cleverly  and  secretly  trying  to  smooth  things  out,  to 
cover  up  the  difficulty  that  had  intruded  itself  into  their 
generally  natural  and  simple  relations. 

"And  your  mother  says  nothing,"  said  Artois,  trying 
to  fall  in  with  her  desire,  and  to  restore  their  wonted 
liveliness.  "Don't  you  look  upon  me  as  almost  a  boy, 
Hermione?" 

"I  think  sometimes  you  seem  wonderfully  young," 
she  said. 

Her  voice  suggested  that  she  wished  to  please  him, 
but  also  that  she  meant  what  she  said.  Yet  Artois  had 
never  felt  his  age  more  acutely  than  when  she  finished 
speaking. 

"I  am  a  poor  companion  for  Vere,"  he  said,  almost 
bitterly.  "She  ought  to  be  with  friends  of  her  own  age." 

"You  mean  that  I  am  a  poor  companion  for  you, 
Monsieur  Emile.  I  often  feel  how  good  you  are  to  put 
up  with  me  in  the  way  you  do." 

The  gayety  had  gone  from  her  now,  and  she  spoke 
with  an  earnestness  that  seemed  to  him  wonderfully 
gracious.  He  looked  at  her,  and  his  eyes  thanked  her 
gently. 

"Take  Emile  out  in  the  boat,  Vere,"  Hermione  said, 
"while  I  read  a  book  till  dinner-time." 

At  that  moment  she  longed  for  them  to  be  gone. 
Vere  looked  at  her  mother,  then  said: 

389 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Come  along,  Monsieur  Emile.  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
but  Madre  wants  rest." 

She  led  the  way  out  of  the  room. 

Hermione  was  on  the  sofa.  Before  he  followed  Vere, 
Artois  went  up  to  her  and  said: 

"You  are  sure  you  won't  come  out  with  us,  my  friend ? 
Perhaps  the  air  on  the  sea  would  do  you  good." 

"No,  thank  you,  Emile;  I  really  think  I  had  better 
stay  quietly  here." 

"Very  well." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  he  went  out  and  left 
her.  But  she  had  seen  a  question  in  his  eyes. 

When  he  had  gone,  Hermione  took  up  a  book,  and 
read  for  a  little  while,  always  listening  for  the  sound  of 
oars.  She  was  not  sure  Vere  and  Emile  would  go  out 
in  the  boat,  but  she  thought  they  would.  If  they  came 
out  to  the  open  sea  beyond  the  island  it  was  possible 
that  she  might  hear  them.  Presently,  as  she  did  not 
hear  them,  she  got  up.  She  wanted  to  satisfy  herself 
that  they  were  at  sea.  Going  to  the  window  she  looked 
out.  But  she  saw  no  boat,  only  the  great  plain  of  the 
radiant  waters.  They  made  her  feel  alone — why,  she 
did  not  know  then.  But  it  was  really  something  of  the 
same  feeling  which  had  come  to  her  long  ago  during  her 
first  visit  to  Sicily.  In  the  contemplation  of  beauty  she 
knew  the  need  of  love,  knew  it  with  an  intimacy  that 
was  cruel. 

She  came  away  from  the  window  and  went  to  the 
terrace.  From  there  she  could  not  see  the  boat.  Fi- 
nally she  went  to  the  small  pavilion  that  overlooked  the 
Saint's  Pool.  Leaning  over  the  parapet,  she  perceived 
the  little  white  boat  just  starting  around  the  cliff  towards 
the  Grotto  of  Virgil.  Vere  was  rowing.  Hermione 
saw  her  thin  figure,  so  impregnated  with  the  narrow 
charm  of  youth,  bending  backward  and  forward  to  the 
oars,  Emile 's  big  form  leaning  against  the  cushions  as 

390 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

if  at  case.  From  the  dripping  oars  came  twinkling  lines 
of  light,  that  rayed  out  and  spread  like  the  opened  sticks 
of  a  fan  upon  the  sea.  Hugging  the  shore,  the  boat 
slipped  out  of  sight. 

"Suppose  they  had  gone  forever — gone  out  of  my 
life!" 

Hermione  said  that  to  herself.  She  fancied  she  still 
could  see  the  faint  commotion  in  the  water  that  told 
where  the  boat  had  passed.  Now  it  was  turning  into 
the  Grotto  of  Virgil.  She  felt  sure  of  that.  It  was 
entering  the  shadows  where  she  had  shown  to  Emile 
not  long  ago  the  very  depths  of  her  heart. 

How  could  she  have  done  that  ?  She  grew  hot  as  she 
thought  of  it.  In  her  new  and  bitter  reserve  she  hated 
to  think  of  his  possession  that  could  never  be  taken 
from  him,  the  knowledge  of  her  hidden  despair,  her 
hidden  need  of  love.  And  by  that  sensation  of  hatred 
of  his  knowledge  she  measured  the  gulf  between  them. 
When  had  come  the  very  first  narrow  fissure  she  scarcely 
knew.  But  she  knew  how  to-day  the  gulf  had  widened. 

That  permission  of  hers  to  Vere  to  read  Emile's  books! 
And  Emile's  authority  governing  her  child,  substituted 
surely  for  hers!  The  gulf  had  been  made  wider  by  her 
learning  that  episode;  and  the  fact  that  secretly  she  felt 
her  permission  ought  never  to  have  been  given  caused 
her  the  more  bitterness.  Vere  had  yielded  to  Emile 
because  he  had  been  in  the  right.  Instinctively  her 
child  had  known  which  of  the  two  with  whom  she  had  to 
deal  was  swayed  by  an  evil  mood,  and  which  was  think- 
ing rightly,  only  for  her. 

Could  Vere  see  into  her  mother's  heart? 

Hermione  had  a  moment  of  panic.  Then  she  laughed 
at  her  folly. 

And  she  thought  of  Peppina,  of  that  other  secret 
which  certainly  existed,  but  which  she  had  never  sus- 
pected till  that  day. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  boat  was  gone,  and  she  knew  where.  She  went 
hack  into  the  house  and  rang  the  bell.  Giulia  came. 

"Oh,  Giulia,"  Hermione  said,  "will  you  please  ask 
Peppina  to  come  to  my  sitting-room.  I  want  to  speak 
to  her  for  a  moment." 

"Si,  Signora." 

Giulia  looked  at  her  Padrona,  then  added: 

"Signora,  I  am  sure  I  was  right.  I  am  sure  that  girl 
has  the  evil  eye." 

"Giulia,  what  nonsense!  I  have  told  you  often  that 
such  ideas  are  silly.  Peppina  has  no  power  to  do  us 
harm.  Poor  girl,  we  ought  to  pity  her." 

Giulia's  fat  face  was  very  grave  and  quite  unconvinced. 

"Signora,  since  she  is  here  the  island  is  not  the  same. 
The  Signorina  is  not  the  same,  you  are  not  the  same, 
the  French  Signore  is  not  the  same.  Even  Gaspare  is 
different.  One  cannot  speak  with  him  now.  Trouble 
is  with  us  all,  Signora." 

Hermione  shook  her  head  impatiently.  But  when 
Giulia  was  gone  she  thought  of  her  words  about  Gaspare. 
Words,  even  the  simplest,  spoken  just  before  some  great 
moment  of  a  life,  some  high  triumph,  or  deep  catastrophe, 
stick  with  resolution  in  the  memory.  Lucrezia  had  once 
said  of  Gaspare  on  the  terrace  before  the  Casa  del  Prete: 
"One  cannot  speak  with  him  to-day."  And  she  had 
added:  "He  is  terrible  to-day."  That  was  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  night  on  which  Maurice's  dead  body  was  found. 
Often  since  then  Hermione  had  thought  that  Gaspare 
had  seemed  to  have  a  prevision  of  the  disaster  that  was 
approaching. 

And  now  Giulia  said  of  him:  "One  cannot  speak  with 
him  now." 

The  same  words.     Was  Gaspare  as  a  stormy  petrel? 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  sitting-room, 
to  which  Hermione  had  gone  to  wait  for  the  coming  of 
Peppina. 

392 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Come  in." 

The  door  opened  and  the  disfigured  girl  entered,  look- 
ing anxious. 

"Come  in,  Peppina.  It's  all  right.  I  only  want  to 
speak  to  you  for  a  moment." 

Hermione  spoke  kindly,  but  Peppina  still  looked 
nervous. 

"Si,  Signora,"  she  murmured. 

And  she  remained  standing  near  the  door,  looking  down. 

"Peppina,"  Hermione  said,  "I'm  going  to  ask  you 
something,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  truth  without 
being  afraid." 

"Si,  Signora." 

"You  remember,  when  I  took  you,  I  told  you  not  to 
say  anything  to  my  daughter,  the  Sinorina,  about  your 
past  life,  your  aunt,  and — and  all  you  had  gone  through. 
Have  you  said  anything?" 

Peppina  looked  more  frightened. 

"Signora,"  she  began.  "Madonna!  It  was  not  my 
fault,  it  was  not  my  fault!" 

She  raised  her  voice,  and  began  to  gesticulate. 

"Hush,  Peppina!     Now  don't  be  afraid  of  me." 

"You  are  my  preserver,  Signora!  My  saint  has  for- 
gotten me,  but  you — 

"I  will  not  leave  you  to  the  streets.  You  must  trust 
me.  And  now  tell  me — quietly — what  have  you  told  the 
Signorina?" 

And  presently  Peppina  was  induced  to  be  truthful, 
and  Hermione  knew  of  the  outburst  in  the  night,  and 
that  "the  foreign  Signore"  had  known  of  it  from  the 
moment  of  its  happening. 

"The  Signorina  was  so  kind,  Signora,  that  I  forgot. 
I  told  her  all!— I  told  her  all — I  told  her — " 

Once  Peppina  had  begun  to  be  truthful  she  could  not 
stop.  She  recalled — or  seemed  to — the  very  words  she 
had  spoken  to  Vere,  all  the  details  of  her  narration. 

393 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"And  the  foreign  Signore?  Was  he  there,  too?" 
Hermione  asked,  at  the  end. 

"No,  Signora.  He  went  away.  The  Signorina  told 
him  to  go  away  and  leave  us." 

Hermione  dismissed  Peppina  quietly. 

"Please  don't  say  anything  about  this  conversation, 
Peppina,"  she  said,  as  the  agitated  girl  prepared  to  go. 
"Try  to  obey  me  this  time,  will  you?" 

She  spoke  very  kindly  but  very  firmly. 

"May  the  Madonna  take  out  my  tongue  if  I  speak, 
Signora!"  Peppina  raised  her  hand. 

As  she  was  going  out  Hermione  stared  at  the  cross 
upon  her  cheek. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

ARTOIS  stayed  to  dine.  The  falling  of  night  deepened 
Hermione's  impression  of  the  gulf  which  was  now  be- 
tween them,  and  which  she  was  sure  he  knew  of.  When 
darkness  comes  to  intimacy  it  seems  to  make  that  in- 
timacy more  perfect.  Now  surely  it  caused  reserve, 
restraint,  to  be  more  complete.  The  two  secrets  which 
Hermione  now  knew,  but  which  were  still  cherished  as 
secrets  by  Vere  and  Artois,  stood  up  between  the  mother 
and  her  child  and  friend,  inexorably  dividing  them. 

Hermione  was  strung  up  to  a  sort  of  nervous  strength 
that  was  full  of  determination.  She  had  herself  in 
hand,  like  a  woman  of  the  world  who  faces  society  with 
the  resolution  to  deceive  it.  While  Vere  and  Artois 
had  been  out  in  the  boat  she  had  schooled  herself.  She 
felt  more  competent  to  be  the  watcher  of  events.  She 
even  felt  calmer,  for  knowledge  increased  almost  always 
brings  an  undercurrent  of  increased  tranquillity,  be- 
cause of  the  sense  of  greater  power  that  it  produces  in 
the  mind.  She  looked  better.  She  talked  more  easily. 

When  dinner  was  over  they  went  as  usual  to  the  gar- 
den, and  when  they  were  there  Hermione  referred  to 
the  projected  meeting  with  the  Marchesino. 

"I  made  a  promise,"  she  said.     "I  must  keep  it." 

"Of  course,"  said  Artois.  "But  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  am  always  being  entertained,  and  that  I  am  inhospitable 
— I  do  nothing  in  return.  I  have  a  proposal  to  make. 
Monday  will  be  the  sixteenth  of  July,  the  festa  of  the 
Madonna  del  Carmine — Santa  Maria  del  Carmine.  It  is 
one  of  the  prettiest  of  the  year,  they  tell  me.  Why 
*6  395 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

should  not  you  and  Vere  come  to  dine  at  the  Hotel,  or 
in  the  Galleria,  with  me  ?  I  will  ask  Panacci  to  join  us, 
and  we  will  all  go  on  afterwards  to  see  the  illuminations, 
and  the  fireworks,  and  the  sending  up  of  the  fire-bal- 
loons. What  do  you  say?" 

"Would  you  like  it,  Vere?" 

"Immensely,  Madre." 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  she  looked  pleased  at  the  idea. 

"Won't  the  crowd  be  very  bad,  though?"  asked  Her- 
mione. 

"I'll  get  tickets  for  the  enclosure  in  the  Piazza.  We 
shall  have  seats  there.  And  you  can  bring  Gaspare,  if 
you  like.  Then  you  will  have  three  cavaliers." 

"Yes,  I  should  like  Gaspare  to  come,"  said  Hermione. 

There  was  a  sound  of  warmth  in  her  hitherto  rather 
cold  voice  when  she  said  that. 

"How  you  rely  on  Gaspare!"  Artois  said,  almost  as 
if  with  a  momentary  touch  of  vexation. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  Hermione  answered. 

Their  eyes  met,  surely  almost  with  hostility. 

"Madre  knows  how  Gaspare  adores  her,"  said  Vere, 
gently.  "If  there  were  any  danger  he'd  never  hesitate. 
He'd  save  Madre  if  he  left  every  other  human  being  in 
the  world  to  perish  miserably — including  me." 

"Vere!" 

"You  know  quite  well  he  would,  Madre." 

They  talked  a  little  more.  Presently  Vere  seemed  to  be 
feeling  restless.  Artois  noticed  it,  and  watched  her.  Once 
or  twice  she  got  up,  without  apparent  reason.  She  pulled 
at  the  branches  of  the  fig-trees.  She  gathered  a  flower. 
She  moved  away,  and  leaned  upon  the  wall.  Finally, 
when  her  mother  and  Artois  had  fallen  into  conversation 
about  some  new  book,  she  slipped  very  quietly  away. 

Hermione  and  Artois  continued  their  conversation, 
though  without  much  animation.  At  length,  however, 
some  remark  of  Hermione  led  Artois  to  speak  of  the 

396 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

book  he  was  writing.  Very  often  and  very  openly  in 
the  days  gone  by  she  had  discussed  with  him  his  work. 
Now,  feeling  the  barrier  between  them,  he  fancied  that 
perhaps  it  might  be  removed  most  easily  by  such  an- 
other discussion.  And  this  notion  of  his  was  not  any 
proof  of  want  of  subtlety  on  his  part.  Without  know- 
ing why,  Hermione  felt  a  lack  of  self-confidence,  a  dis- 
tressing, an  almost  unnatural  humbleness  to-day.  He 
partially  divined  the  feeling.  Possibly  it  sprang  from 
their  difference  of  opinion  on  the  propriety  of  Vere's 
reading  his  books.  He  thought  it  might  be  so.  And 
he  wanted  to  oust  Hermione  gently  from  her  low  stool 
and  to  show  her  himself  seated  there.  Filled  with  this 
idea,  he  began  to  ask  her  advice  about  the  task  upon 
which  she  was  engaged.  He  explained  the  progress  he 
had  made  during  the  days  when  he  was  absent  from  the 
island  and  shut  perpetually  in  his  room.  She  listened 
in  perfect  silence. 

They  were  sitting  near  each  other,  but  not  close  to- 
gether, for  Vere  had  been  between  them.  It  was  dark 
under  the  fig-trees.  They  could  see  each  other's  faces, 
but  not  quite  clearly.  There  was  a  small  breeze  which 
made  the  trees  move,  and  the  leaves  rustled  faintly  now 
and  then,  making  a  tiny  noise  which  joined  the  furtive 
noise  of  the  sea,  not  far  below  them. 

Artois  talked  on.  As  his  thoughts  became  more  con- 
centrated upon  his  book  he  grew  warmer.  Having  al- 
ways had  Hermione 's  eager,  even  enthusiastic  sympathy 
and  encouragement  in  his  work,  he  believed  himself  to 
have  them  now.  And  in  his  manner,  in  his  tone,  even 
sometimes  in  his  choice  of  words,  he  plainly  showed  that 
he  assumed  them.  But  presently,  glancing  across  at 
Hermione,  he  was  surprised  by  the  expression  on  her 
face.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  face  of  stone  had  suddenly 
looked  bitterly  satirical.  He  was  so  astonished  that  the 
words  stopped  upon  his  lips. 

397 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Go  on,  Emile,"  she  said,  "I  am  listening." 

The  expression  which  had  startled  him  was  gone.  Had 
it  ever  been  ?  Perhaps  he  had  been  deceived  by  the 
darkness.  Perhaps  the  moving  leaves  had  thrown  their 
little  shadows  across  her  features.  He  said  to  himself 
that  it  must  be  so — that  his  friend,  Hermione,  could 
never  have  looked  like  that.  Yet  he  was  chilled.  And 
he  remembered  her  passing  by  in  the  tram  at  Posilipo, 
and  how  he  had  stood  for  a  moment  and  watched  her, 
and  seen  upon  her  face  a  furtive  look  that  he  had  never 
seen  there  before,  and  that  had  seemed  to  contradict 
her  whole  nature  as  he  knew  it. 

Did  he  know  it? 

Never  before  had  he  asked  himself  this  question.  He 
asked  it  now.  Was  there  living  in  Hermione  some  one 
whom  he  did  not  know,  with  whom  he  had  had  no  deal- 
ings, had  exchanged  no  thoughts,  had  spoken  no  words? 

"Go  on,  Emile,"  she  said  again. 

But  he  could  not.  For  once  his  brain  was  clouded, 
and  he  felt  confused.  He  had  completely  lost  the  thread 
of  his  thoughts. 

"I  can't,"  he  said,  abruptly. 

"Why  not?" 

"I've  forgotten.  I've  not  thoroughly  worked  the 
thing  out.  Another  time.  Besides — besides,  I'm  sure 
I  bore  you  with  my  eternal  talk  about  my  work.  You've 
been  such  a  kind,  such  a  sympathetic  friend  and  en- 
courage r  that — " 

He  broke  off,  thinking  of  that  face.  Was  is  possible 
that  through  all  these  years  Hermione  had  been  playing 
a  part  with  him,  had  been  pretending  to  admire  his 
talent,  to  care  for  what  he  was  doing,  when  really  she 
had  been  bored  by  it?  Had  the  whole  thing  been  a 
weariness  to  her,  endured  perhaps  because  she  liked  him 
as  a  man  ?  The  thought  cut  him  to  the  very  quick, 
seared  his  self-respect,  struck  a  blow  at  his  pride  which 

398 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

made  it  quiver,  and  struck  surely  also  a  blow  at  some- 
thing else. 

His  life  during  all  these  years — what  would  it  have 
been  without  Hermione's  friendship?  Was  he  to  learn 
that  now  ? 

He  looked  at  her.  Now  her  face  was  almost  as  usual, 
only  less  animated  than  he  had  seen  it. 

"Your  work  could  never  bore  me.  You  know  it," 
she  said. 

The  real  Hermione  sounded  in  her  voice  when  she  said 
that,  for  the  eternal  woman  deep  down  in  her  had  heard 
the  sound  almost  of  helplessness  in  his  voice,  had  felt  the 
leaning  of  his  nature,  strong  though  it  was,  on  her,  and 
had  responded  instantly,  inevitably,  almost  passionately. 
But  then  came  the  thought  of  his  secret  intercourse  with 
Vere.  She  saw  in  the  dark  words:  "Monsieur  Emile's 
idea."  "Monsieur  Emile's  suggestion."  She  remem- 
bered how  Artois  had  told  her  that  she.  could  never  be 
an  artist.  And  again  the  intensely  bitter  feeling  of  satire, 
that  had  set  in  her  face  the  expression  which  had  startled 
him,  returned,  twisting,  warping  her  whole  nature. 

"I  am  to  encourage  you — you  who  have  told  me  that 
I  can  do  nothing!" 

That  was  what  she  had  been  feeling.  And,  as  by  a 
search-light,  she  had  seen  surely  for  a  moment  the  whole 
great  and  undying  selfishness  of  man,  exactly  as  it  was. 
And  she  had  seen  surely,  also,  the  ministering  world  of 
women  gathered  round  about  it,  feeding  it,  lest  it  should 
fail  and  be  no  more.  And  she  had  seen  herself  among 
them! 

"Where  can  Vere  have  gone  to?"  he  said. 

There  had  been  a  pause.  Neither  knew  how  long  it 
had  lasted. 

"I  should  not  wonder  if  she  is  on  the  cliff,"  said  Her- 
mione. "She  often  goes  there  at  his  hour.  She  goes 
to  meet  Ruffo." 

399 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  name  switched  the  mind  of  Artois  on  to  a  new 
and  profoundly  interesting  train  of  thought. 

"Ruffo,"  he  began,  slowly.  "And  you  think  it 
wise — ?" 

He  stopped.  To-night  he  no  longer  dared  frankly  to 
speak  all  his  mind  to  Hermione. 

"I  was  at  Mergellina  the  other  day,"  he  said.  "And 
I  saw  Ruffo  with  his  mother." 

"Did  you?     What  is  she  like?" 

"Oh,  like  many  middle-aged  women  of  the  South, 
rather  broad  and  battered-looking,  and  probably  much 
older  in  appearance  than  in  years." 

"Poor  woman!     She  has  been  through  a  great  deal." 

Her  voice  was  quite  genuine  now.  And  Artois  said 
to  himself  that  the  faint  suspicion  he  had  had  was  ill- 
founded. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  her?" 

"Oh  yes.  I  had  a  talk  with  Ruffo  the  other  night. 
And  he  told  me  several  things." 

Each  time  Hermione  mentioned  Ruffe's  name  it 
seemed  to  Artois  that  her  voice  softened,  almost  that 
she  gave  the  word  a  caress.  He  longed  to  ask  her  some- 
thing, but  he  was  afraid  to. 

He  would  try  not  to  interfere  with  Fate.  But  he 
would  not  hasten  its  coming — if  it  were  coming.  And  he 
knew  nothing.  Perhaps  the  anxious  suspicion  which  had 
taken  up  its  abode  in  his  mind,  and  which,  without  defi- 
nite reason,  seemed  gradually  changing  into  a  conviction, 
was  erroneous.  Perhaps  some  day  he  would  laugh  at 
himself,  and  say  to  himself,  "I  was  mad  to  dream  of 
such  a  thing." 

"Those  women  often  have  a  bad  time,"  he  said. 

"Few  women  do  not,  I  sometimes  think." 

He  said  nothing,  and  she  went  on  rather  hastily,  as 
if  wishing  to  cover  her  last  words. 

"Ruffo  told  me  something  that  I  did  not  know  about 
400 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Peppina.     His  step-father  was  the  man  who  cut  that 
cross  on  Peppina 's  face." 

"Perdio!"  said  Artois. 

He  used  the  Italian  exclamation  at  that  moment 
quite  naturally.  Suddenly  he  wished  more  than  ever 
before  that  Hermione  had  not  taken  Peppina  to  live  on 
the  island. 

"Hermione,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  had  not  Peppina 
here." 

"Still  because  of  Vere?"  she  said. 

And  now  she  was  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"I  feel  that  she  comes  from  another  world,  that  she 
had  better  keep  away  from  yours.  I  feel  as  if  misfort- 
une attended  her." 

"It  is  odd.  Even  the  servants  say  she  has  the  evil 
eye.  But,  if  she  has,  it  is  too  late  now.  Peppina  has 
looked  upon  us  all." 

"Perhaps  that  old  Eastern  was  right."  Artois  could 
not  help  saying  it.  "Perhaps  all  that  is  to  be  is  ordained 
long  beforehand.  Do  you  think  that,  Hermione?" 

"I  have  sometimes  thought  it,  when  I  have  been  de- 
pressed. I  have  sometimes  said  to  myself,  'E  il  des- 
tino!'" 

She  remembered  at  that  moment  her  feeling  on  the 
day  when  she  returned  from  the  expedition  with  Vere 
to  Capri — that  perhaps  she  had  returned  to  the  island 
to  confront  some  grievous  fate.  Had  Artois  such  a 
thought,  such  a  prevision?  Suddenly  she  felt  fright- 
ened, like  a  child  when,  at  night,  it  passes  the  open  door 
of  a  room  that  is  dark. 

She  moved  and  got  up  from  her  chair.  Like  the  child, 
when  it  rushes  on  and  away,  she  felt  in  her  panic  the 
necessity  of  physical  activity. 

Artois  followed  her  example.     He  was  glad  to  move. 

"Shall  we  go  and  see  what  Vere  is  doing?"  he  said. 

"If  you  like.     I  feel  sure  she  is  with  Ruffo." 
401 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

They  went  towards  the  house.  Artois  felt  a  deep 
curiosity,  which  filled  his  whole  being,  to  know  what 
Hermione's  exact  feeling  towards  Ruffo  was. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  said,  "that  perhaps  it  is  a  little 
dangerous  to  allow  Vere  to  be  so  much  with  a  boy  from 
Mergellina?" 

"  Oh  no." 

In  her  tone  there  was  the  calm  of  absolute  certainty. 

"Well,  but  we  don't  know  so  very  much  about  him." 

"Do  you  think  two  instincts  could  be  at  fault?" 

"Two  instincts?" 

' '  Vere 's  and  mine  ? ' ' 

"Perhaps  not.     Then  your  instinct — " 

He  waited.     He  was  passionately  interested. 

"  Ruffo  is  all  right,"  Hermione  answered. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  she  had  deliberately  used  that 
bluff  expression  to  punish  his  almost  mystical  curiosity. 
Was  she  warding  him  off  consciously? 

They  passed  through  the  house  and  came  out  on  its 
farther  side,  but  they  did  not  go  immediately  to  the 
cliff  top.  Both  of  them  felt  certain  the  two  children 
must  be  there,  and  both  of  them,  perhaps,  were  held 
back  for  a  moment  by  a  mutual  desire  not  to  disturb 
their  innocent  confidences.  They  stood  upon  the  bridge, 
therefore,  looking  down  into  the  dimness  of  the  Pool. 
From  the  water  silence  seemed  to  float  up  to  them,  al- 
most visibly,  like  a  lovely,  delicate  mist — silence,  and 
the  tenderness  of  night,  embracing  their  distresses. 

The  satire  died  out  of  Hermione's  poor,  tormented 
heart.  And  Artois  for  a  moment  forgot  the  terrible  face 
half  seen  in  the  darkness  of  the  trees. 

"There  is  the  boat.     He  is  here." 

Hermione  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  pointing  to  the  shad- 
owy form  of  a  boat  upon  the  Pool. 

"Yes." 

Artois  gazed  at  the  boat.  Was  it  indeed  a  Fate  that 

402 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

came  by  night  to  the  island  softly  across  the  sea,  ferried 
by  the  ignorant  hands  of  men?  He  longed  to  know. 
And  Hermione  longed  to  know  something,  too:  whether 
Artois  had  ever  seen  the  strange  likeness  she  had  seen, 
whether  Maurice  had  ever  seemed  to  gaze  for  a  moment 
at  him  out  of  the  eyes  of  Ruffo.  But  to-night  she  could 
not  ask  him  that.  They  were  too  far  away  from  each 
other.  And  because  of  the  gulf  between  them  her 
memory  had  suddenly  become  far  more  sacred,  far  more 
necessary  to  her  even,  than  it  had  been  before. 

It  had  been  a  solace,  a  beautiful  solace.  But  now  it 
was  much  more  than  that — now  it  was  surely  her  sal- 
vation. 

As  she  felt  that,  a  deep  longing  filled  her  heart  to  look 
again  on  Ruffo's  face,  to  search  again  for  the  expression 
that  sent  back  the  years.  But  she  wished  to  do  that 
without  witnesses,  to  be  alone  with  the  boy,  as  she  had 
been  alone  with  him  that  night  upon  the  bridge.  And 
suddenly  she  was  impatient  of  Vere's  intercourse  with 
him.  Vere  could  not  know  what  that  tender  look 
meant,  if  it  came.  For  she  had  never  seen  her  father's 
face. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  cliff,"  Hermione  said,  moved  by  this 
new  feeling  of  impatience. 

She  meant  to  interrupt  the  children,  to  get  rid  of  Vere 
and  Emile,  and  have  Ruffo  to  herself  for  a  moment. 
Just  then  she  felt  as  if  he  were  nearer,  far  nearer,  to  her 
than  they  were:  they  who  kept  things  from  her,  who 
spoke  of  her  secretly,  pitying  her. 

And  again  that  evening  she  came  into  acute  antago- 
nism with  her  friend.  For  the  instinct  was  still  alive 
in  him  not  to  interrupt  the  children.  The  strange  sus- 
picion that  had  been  born  and  that  lived  within  him 
gathered  strength,  caused  him  to  feel  almost  as  if  they 
might  be  upon  holy  ground,  those  two  so  full  of  youth, 
who  talked  together  in  the  night ;  as  if  they  knew  mys- 

403 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

teriously  things  that  were  hidden  from  their  elders, 
from  those  wiser,  yet  far  less  full  of  the  wisdom  that  is 
eternal,  the  wisdom  of  instinct,  than  themselves.  There 
is  always  something  sacred  about  children.  And  he 
had  never  lost  the  sense  of  it  amid  the  dust  of  his  worldly 
knowledge.  But  about  these  children,  about  them  or 
within  them,  there  floated,  perhaps,  something  that  was 
mystic,  something  that  was  awful  and  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed. Hermione  did  not  feel  it.  How  could  she? 
He  himself  had  withheld  from  her  for  many  years  the 
only  knowledge  that  could  have  made  her  share  his 
present  feeling.  He  could  tell  her  nothing.  Yet  he 
could  not  conceal  his  intense  reluctance  to  go  to  that 
seat  upon  the  cliff. 

"But  it's  delicious  here.  I  love  the  Pool  at  night, 
don't  you?  Look  at  the  Saint's  light,  how  quietly  it 
shines!" 

She  took  her  hands  from  the  rail.  His  attempt  at  de- 
tention irritated  her  whole  being.  She  looked  at  the 
light.  On  the  night  of  the  storm  she  had  felt  as  if  it 
shone  exclusively  for  her.  That  feeling  was  dead.  San 
Francesco  watched,  perhaps,  over  the  fishermen.  He 
did  not  watch  over  her. 

And  yet  that  night  she,  too,  had  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  when  she  knew  that  the  light  was  shining. 

She  did  not  answer  Artois*  remark,  and  he  continued, 
always  for  the  children's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  what 
he  seemed  to  divine  secretly  at  work  in  them: 

"This  Pool  is  a  place  apart,  I  think.  The  Saint  has 
given  his  benediction  to  it." 

He  was  speaking  at  random  to  keep  Hermione  there. 
And  yet  his  words  seemed  chosen  by  some  one  for  him 
to  say. 

"Surely  good  must  come  to  the  island  over  that  water- 
way." 

"You  think  so!" 

404 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Her  stress  upon  the  pronoun  made  him  reply: 

"Hermione,  you  do  not  think  me  the  typical  French- 
man of  this  century,  who  furiously  denies  over  a  glass  of 
absinthe  the  existence  of  the  Creator  of  the  world?" 

"No.  But  I  scarcely  thought  you  believed  in  the 
efficacy  of  a  plaster  Saint." 

"Not  of  the  plaster — no.  But  don't  you  think  it  pos- 
sible that  truth,  emanating  from  certain  regions  and 
affecting  the  souls  of  men,  might  move  them  uncon- 
sciously to  embody  it  in  symbol  ?  What  if  this  Pool  were 
blessed,  and  men,  feeling  that  it  was  blessed,  put  San 
Francesco  here  with  his  visible  benediction  ?" 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  was  playing  with  his  imagi- 
nation, as  sometimes  he  played  with  words,  half-sen- 
suously  and  half-JEsthetically;  yet  he  felt  to-night  as  if 
within  him  there  was  something  that  might  believe  far 
more  than  he  had  ever  suspected  it  would  be  possible  for 
him  to  believe. 

And  that,  too,  seemed  to  have  come  to  him  from  the 
hidden  children  who  were  so  near. 

"I  don't  feel  at  all  as  if  the  Pool  were  blessed,"  said 
Hermione.  She  sighed. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  cliff,"  she  said,  again,  this  time  with 
a  strong  impatience. 

He  could  not,  of  course,  resist  her  desire,  so  they 
moved  away,  and  mounted  to  the  summit  of  the  island. 

The  children  were  there.  They  could  just  see  them 
in  the  darkness,  Vere  seated  upon  the  wooden  bench, 
Ruffo  standing  beside  her.  Their  forms  looked  like 
shadows,  but  from  the  shadows  voices  came. 

When  he  saw  them,  Artois  stood  still.  Hennione  was 
going  on.  He  put  his  hand  upon  her  arm  to  stop  her. 
She  sent  an  almost  sharp  inquiry  to  him  with  her  eyes. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  said— "don't  you  think  it  is  a 
pity  to  disturb  them?" 

"Why?" 

405 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"They  seem  so  happy  together." 

He  glanced  at  her  for  sympathy,  but  she  gave  him 
none. 

"Am  I  to  have  nothing ?"  she  thought.  And  a  passion 
of  secret  anger  woke  up  in  her.  "Am  I  to  have  nothing 
at  all?  May  I  not  even  speak  to  this  boy,  in  whom  I 
have  seen  Maurice  for  a  moment — because  if  I  do  I  may 
disturb  some  childish  gossip?" 

Her  eyes  gave  to  Artois  a  fierce  rebuke. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Hermione,"  he  said,  hastily. 
"Of  course  if  you  really  want  to  talk  to  Ruffo — " 

"I  don't  think  Vere  will  mind,"  she  said. 

Her  lips  were  actually  trembling,  but  her  voice  was 
calm. 

They  walked  forward. 

When  they  were  close  to  the  children  they  both  saw 
there  was  a  third  figure  on  the  cliff.  Gaspare  was  at  a 
little  distance.  Hermione  could  see  the  red  point  of  his 
cigarette  gleaming. 

"Gaspare's  there,  too,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Why  is  he  there?"  Artois  thought. 

And  again  there  woke  up  in  him  an  intense  curiosity 
about  Gaspare. 

Ruffo  had  seen  them,  and  now  he  took  off  his  cap. 
And  Vere  turned  her  head  and  got  up  from  the  seat. 

Neither  the  girl  nor  the  boy  gave  any  explanation  of 
their  being  together.  Evidently  they  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  do  so.  Hermione  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Good-evening,  Ruffo,"  she  said. 

Artois  noticed  a  peculiar  kindness  and  gentleness  in 
her  voice  when  she  spoke  to  the  boy,  a  sound  apart,  that 
surely  did  not  come  into  her  voice  even  when  it  spoke  to 
Vere. 

"Good-evening,  Signora."  He  stood  with  his  cap  in 
his  hand.  "I  have  been  telling  the  Signorina  what  you 

406 


SHE    WAS    JUST    GOING    TO    TURN    AWAY    WHEN    RUFFO    BENT 
DOWN    TO    KISS    HER    HAND" 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

have  done  for  my  poor  mamma,  Signora.  I  did  not  tell 
her  before  because  I  thought  she  knew.  But  she  did  not 
know." 

Vere  was  looking  at  her  mother  with  a  shining  of  affec- 
tion in  her  eyes. 

At  this  moment  Gaspare  came  up  slowly,  with  a  care- 
less walk. 

Artois  watched  him. 

"About  the  little  money,  you  mean?"  said  Hermione, 
rather  hastily. 

"Si,  Signora.  When  I  gave  it  to  my  poor  mamma 
she  cried  again.  But  that  was  because  you  were  so  kind. 
And  she  said  to  me,  'Ruffo,  why  should  a  strange  lady 
be  so  kind  to  me  ?  Why  should  a  strange  lady  think 
about  me?'  she  said.  'Ruffino,'  she  said,  'it  must  be 
Santa  Maddalena  who  has  sent  her  here  to  be  good  to 
me.'  My  poor  mamma!" 

"The  Signora  does  not  want  to  be  bothered' with  all 
this!"  It  was  Gaspare  who  had  spoken,  roughly,  and 
who  now  pushed  in  between  Ruffo  and  those  who  were 
listening  to  his  simple  narrative. 

Ruffo  looked  surprised,  but  submissive.  Evidently 
he  respected  Gaspare,  and  the  two  understood  each 
other.  And  though  Gaspare's  words  were  harsh,  his 
eyes,  as  they  looked  at  Ruffo,  seemed  to  contradict  them. 
Nevertheless,  there  was  excitement,  a  strung-up  look  in 
his  face. 

"Gaspare!"  said  Vere. 

Her  eyes  shot  fire. 

"Signorina?" 

"Madre  does  like  to  hear  what  Ruffo  has  to  say. 
Don't  you,  Madre?" 

Gaspare  looked  unmoved.  His  whole  face  was  full 
of  a  dogged  obstinacy.  Yet  he  did  not  forget  himself. 
There  was  nothing  rude  in  his  manner  as  he  said,  before 
Hermione  could  reply: 

407 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Signorina,  the  Signora  does  not  know  Ruffo's  moth- 
er, so  such  things  cannot  interest  her.  Is  it  not  so, 
Signora?" 

Hermione  was  still  governed  by  the  desire  to  be  alone 
for  a  little  while  with  Ruffo,  and  the  sensation  of  intense 
reserve — a  reserve  that  seemed  even  partially  physical — • 
that  she  felt  towards  Artois  made  her  dislike  Ruffo's 
public  exhibition  of  a  gratitude  that,  expressed  in  pri- 
vate, would  have  been  sweet  to  her.  Instead,  therefore, 
of  agreeing  with  Vere,  she  said,  in  rather  an  off-hand  way: 

"It's  all  right,  Ruffo.  Thank  you  very  much.  But 
we  must  not  keep  Don  Emilio  listening  to  my  supposed 
good  deeds  forever.  So  that's  enough." 

Vere  reddened.  Evidently  she  felt  snubbed.  She 
said  nothing,  but  she  shot  a  glance  of  eager  sympathy  at 
Ruffo,  who  stood  very  simply  looking  at  Hermione  with 
a  sort  of  manly  deference,  as  if  all  that  she  said,  or  wished, 
must  certainly  be  right.  Then  she  moved  quietly  away, 
pressing  her  lips  rather  firmly  together,  and  went  slowly 
towards  the  house.  After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Artois 
followed  her.  Hermione  remained  by  Ruffo,  and  Gas- 
pare stayed  doggedly  with  his  Padrona. 

Hermione  wished  he  would  go.  She  could  not  under- 
stand his  exact  feeling  about  the  fisher-boy's  odd  little 
intimacy  with  them.  Her  instinct  told  her  that  secretly 
he  was  fond  of  Ruffo.  Yet  sometimes  he  seemed  to  be 
hostile  to  him,  to  be  suspicious  of  him,  as  of  some  one 
who  might  bring  them  harm.  Or,  perhaps,  he  felt  it  his 
duty  to  be  on  guard  against  all  strangers  who  approached 
them.  She  knew  well  his  fixed  belief  that  she  and  Vere 
depended  entirely  on  him,  felt  always  perfectly  safe 
when  he  was  near.  And  she  liked  to  have  him  near — 
but  not  just  at  this  moment.  Yet  she  did  not  feel  that 
she  could  ask  him  to  go. 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  gratitude,  Ruffo," 
she  said.  "You  mustn't  think — " 

408 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

She  glanced  at  Gaspare. 

"I  didn't  want  to  stop  you,"  she  continued,  trying  to 
steer  an  even  course.  "But  it's  a  very  little  thing.  I 
hope  your  mother  is  getting  on  pretty  well.  She  must 
have  courage." 

As  she  said  the  last  sentence  she  thought  it  came  that 
night  oddly  from  her  lips. 

Gaspare  moved  as  if  he  felt  impatient,  and  suddenly 
Hermione  knew  an  anger  akin  to  Vere's,  an  anger  she 
had  scarcely  ever  felt  against  Gaspare. 

She  did  not  show  it  at  first,  but  went  on  with  a  sort 
of  forced  calmness  and  deliberation,  a  touch  even  per- 
haps of  obstinacy  that  was  meant  for  Gaspare. 

"I  am  interested  in  your  mother,  you  know,  although 
I  have  not  seen  her.  Tell  me  how  she  is." 

Gaspare  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  something  held 
him  silent;  and  as  he  listened  to  Ruffo's  carefully  de- 
tailed reply,  delivered  with  the  perfect  naturalness  of 
one  sure  of  the  genuine  interest  taken  in  his  concerns 
by  his  auditors,  his  large  eyes  travelled  from  the  face  of 
the  boy  to  the  face  of  his  Padrona  with  a  deep  and  rest- 
less curiosity.  He  seemed  to  inquire  something  of  Ruffo, 
something  of  Hermione,  and  then,  at  the  last,  surely 
something  of  himself.  But  when  Ruffo  had  finished,  he 
said,  brusquely: 

"Signora,  it  is  getting  very  late.  Will  not  Don 
Emilio  be  going?  He  will  want  to  say  good-night,  and 
I  must  help  him  with  the  boat." 

"Run  and  see  if  Don  Emilio  is  in  a  hurry,  Gaspare. 
If  he  is  I'll  come." 

Gaspare  looked  at  her,  hesitating. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed,  her  secret  irrita- 
tion suddenly  getting  the  upper  hand  in  her  nature. 
"Are  you  afraid  that  Ruffo  will  hurt  me?" 

"No,  Signora." 

As  Vere  had  reddened,  he  reddened,  and  he  looked  with 
409 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

deep  reproach  at  his  Padrona.  That  look  went  to  Her- 
mione's  heart;  she  thought,  "Am  I  going  to  quarrel  with 
the  one  true  and  absolutely  loyal  friend  I  have?"  She 
remembered  Vere's  words  in  the  garden  about  Gaspare's 
devotion  to  her,  a  devotion  which  she  felt  like  a  warmth 
round  about  her  life. 

"I'll  come  with  you,  Gaspare,"  she  said,  with  a  re- 
vulsion of  feeling.  "Good-night,  Ruffo." 

"Good-night,  Signora." 

"Perhaps  we  shall  see  you  to-morrow." 
J  She  was  just  going  to  turn  away  when  Ruffo  bent  down 
to  kiss  her  hand.  Since  she  had  given  charity  to  his 
mother  it  was  evident  that  his  feeling  for  her  had 
changed.  The  Sicilian  in  him  rose  up  to  honor  her  like 
a  Padrona. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  letting  go  her  hand.  "Benedicite 
e  buon  riposo." 

He  was  being  a  little  whimsical,  was  showing  to  her 
and  to  Gaspare  that  he  knew  how  to  be  a  Sicilian.  And 
now  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other  to  see  how  they 
took  his  salutation:  looked  gently,  confidentially,  with 
a  smile  dawning  in  his  eyes  under  the  deference  and  the 
boyish  affection  and  gratitude. 

And  again  it  seemed  to  Hermione  for  a  moment  that 
Maurice  stood  there  before  her  in  the  night.  Her  im- 
pulse was  to  catch  Gaspare's  arm,  to  say  to  him,  "Look! 
Don't  you  see  your  Padrone?" 

She  did  not  do  this,  but  she  did  turn  impulsively  to 
Gaspare.  And  as  she  turned  she  saw  tears  start  into 
his  eyes.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  temples,  his  forehead. 
He  put  up  his  hand  to  his  face. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  "are  you  not  coming?" 

He  cleared  his  throat  violently.  "I  have  taken  a 
cold,"  he  muttered. 

He  caught  hold  of  his  throat  with  his  left  hand,  and 
again  cleared  his  throat. 

410 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

i 

"Madre  di  Dio!" 

He  spoke  very  roughly. 

But  his  roughness  did  not  hurt  Hermione;  for  sud- 
denly she  felt  far  less  lonely  and  deserted.  Gaspare  had 
seen  what  she  had  seen — she  knew  it. 

As  they  went  back  to  the  house  it  Deemed  to  her  thai- 
she  and  Gaspare  talked  together. 

And  yet  they  spoke  no  words. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

NEITHER  Artois  nor  the  Marchesino  visited  the  imnd 
during  the  days  that  elapsed  before  the  Festa  of  the 
Madonna  del  Carmine.  But  Artois  wrote  to  tell  Her- 
mione  that  the  Marchesino  had  accepted  his  invitation, 
and  that  he  hoped  she  and  Vere  would  be  at  the  H6tel 
des  Strangers  punctually  by  eight  o'clock  on  the  night 
of  the  sixteenth.  He  wrote  cordially,  but  a  little  for- 
mally, and  did  not  add  any  gossip  or  any  remarks  about 
his  work  to  the  few  sentences  connected  with  the  pro- 
jected expedition.  And  Hermione  replied  as  briefly  to  his 
note.  Usually,  when  she  wrote  to  Artois,  her  pen  flew, 
and  eager  thoughts,  born  of  the  thought  of  him,  floated 
into  her  mind.  But  this  time  it  was  not  so.  The  ener- 
gies of  her  mind  in  connection  with  his  mind  were  surely 
failing.  As  she  put  the  note  into  its  envelope  she  had 
the  feeling  of  one  who  had  been  trying  to  "make"  con- 
versation with  an  acquaintance,  and  who  had  not  been 
successful,  and  she  found  herself  almost  dreading  to  talk 
with  Emile. 

Yet  for  years  her  talks  with  him  had  been  her  greatest 
pleasure,  outside  of  her  intercourse  with  Vere  and  her 
relations  with  Gaspare. 

The  change  that  had  come  over  their  friendship,  like 
a  mist  over  the  sea,  was  subtle,  yet  startling  in  its  com- 
pleteness. She  wondered  if  she  saw  and  felt  this  mist 
as  definitely  as  she  did,  if  he  regretted  the  fair  prospect 
it  had  blotted  out,  if  he  marvelled  at  its  coming. 

He  was  so  acute  that  he  must  be  aware  of  the  droop- 

412 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ing  of  their  intimacy.  To  what  could  he  attribute  it? 
And  would  he  care  to  fight  against  the  change? 

She  remembered  the  days  when  she  had  nursed  him 
in  Kairouan.  She  felt  again  the  hot  dry  atmosphere. 
She  heard  the  ceaseless  buzzing  of  the  flies.  How  pale 
his  face  had  been,  how  weak  his  body!  He  had  returned 
to  the  weakness  of  a  child.  He  had  depended  upon  her. 
That  fact,  that  he  had  for  a  time  utterly  depended  upon 
her,  had  forged  a  new  link  in  their  friendship,  the  strong- 
est link  of  all.  At  least  she  had  felt  it  to  be  so.  For 
she  was  very  much  of  a  woman,  and  full  of  a  secret 
motherliness. 

But  perhaps  he  had  forgotten  all  that. 

In  these  days  she  often  felt  as  if  she  did  not  under- 
stand men  at  all,  as  if  their  natures  were  hidden  from 
her,  and  perhaps,  of  necessity,  from  all  women. 

"We  can't  understand  each  other." 

She  often  said  that  to  herself,  and  partly  to  comfort 
herself  a  little.  She  did  not  want  to  be  only  one  of  a 
class  of  women  from  whom  men's  natures  were  hidden. 

And  yet  it  was  not  true. 

For  Maurice,  at  least,  she  had  understood.  She  had 
not  feared  his  gayeties,  his  boyish  love  of  pleasure,  his 
passion  for  the  sun,  his  joy  in  the  peasant  life,  his  al- 
most fierce  happiness  in  the  life  of  the  body.  She  had 
feared  nothing  in  him,  because  she  had  felt  that  she 
understood  him  thoroughly.  She  had  read  the  gay 
innocence  of  his  temperament  rightly,  and  so  she  had 
never  tried  to  hold  him  back  from  his  pleasures,  to  keep 
him  always  with  her,  as  many  women  would  have  done. 

And  she  clung  to  the  memory  of  her  understanding  of 
Maurice  as  she  faced  the  mist  that  had  swept  up  softly 
and  silently  over  that  sea  and  sky  which  had  been  clear. 
He  had  been  simple.  There  was  nothing  to  dread  in 
cleverness,  in  complexity.  One  got  lost  in  a  nature 
that  was  full  of  winding  paths.  Just  then,  and  for  the 

413 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

time,  she  forgot  her  love  of,  even  her  passion  for,  mental 
things.  The  beauty  of  the  straight  white  road  appealed 
to  her.  She  saw  it  leading  one  onward  to  the  glory  of 
the  sun. 

Vere  and  she  did  not  see  very  much  of  each  other  dur- 
ing those  days.  They  met,  of  course,  at  meals,  and  often 
for  a  few  minutes  at  other  times.  But  it  seemed  as  if 
each  tacitly,  and  almost  instinctively,  sought  to  avoid 
any  prolonged  intercourse  with  the  other.  Hermione 
was  a  great  deal  in  her  sitting-room,  reading,  or  pretend- 
ing to  read.  And  Vere  made  several  long  expeditions 
upon  the  sea  in  the  sailing -boat  with  Gaspare  and  a 
boy  from  the  nearest  village,  who  was  hired  as  an  extra 
hand. 

Hermione  had  a  strange  feeling  of  desertion  sometimes, 
when  the  white  sail  of  the  boat  faded  on  the  blue  and 
she  saw  the  empty  sea.  She  would  watch  the  boat  go 
out,  standing  at  a  window  and  looking  through  the 
blinds.  The  sailor-boy  pulled  at  the  oars.  Vere  was  at 
the  helm,  Gaspare  busy  with  the  ropes.  They  passed 
quite  close  beneath  her.  She  saw  Vere's  bright  and 
eager  face  looking  the  way  they  were  going,  anticipating 
the  voyage;  Gaspare's  brown  hands  moving  swiftly  and 
deftly.  She  saw  the  sail  run  up,  the  boat  bend  over. 
The  oars  were  laid  in  their  places  now.  The  boat  went 
faster  through  the  water.  The  forms  in  it  dwindled. 
Was  that  Vere's  head,  or  Gaspare's?  Who  was  that 
standing  up?  The  fisher-boy?  What  were  they  now, 
they  and  the  boat  that  held  them  ?  Only  a  white  sail  on 
the  blue,  going  towards  the  sun. 

And  how  deep  was  the  silence  that  fell  about  the 
house,  how  deep  and  hollow!  She  saw  her  life  then 
like  a  cavern  that  was  empty.  No  waters  flowed  into 
it.  No  lights  played  in  its  recesses.  No  sounds  echoed 
through  it. 

She  looked  up  into  the  blue,  and  remembered  her 
4M 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

thought,  that  Maurice  had  been  taken  by  the  blue. 
Hark!  Was  there  not  in  the  air  the  thin  sound  of  a  reed 
flute  playing  a  tarantella?  She  shut  her  eyes,  and  saw 
the  gray  rocks  of  Sicily.  But  the  blue  was  too  vast. 
Maurice  was  lost  in  it,  lost  to  her  forever.  And  she  gazed 
up  into  it  again,  with  the  effort  to  travel  through  it,  to 
go  on  and  on  and  on.  And  it  seemed  as  if  her  soul  ached 
from  that  journey. 

The  sail  had  dipped  down  below  the  horizon.  She 
let  fall  the  blind.  She  sat  down  in  the  silence. 

Vere  was  greatly  perplexed  about  her  mother.  One 
day  in  the  boat  she  followed  her  instinct  and  spoke  to 
Gaspare  about  her.  Hermione  and  she  between  them 
had  taught  Gaspare  some  English.  He  understood  it 
fairly  well,  and  could  speak  it,  though  not  correctly,  and 
he  was  very  proud  of  his  knowledge.  Because  of  the 
fisher-boy,  Vere  said  what  she  had  to  say  slowly  in  Eng- 
lish. Gaspare  listened  with  the  grave  look  of  learning 
that  betokened  his  secret  sensation  of  being  glorified  by 
his  capacities.  But  when  he  grasped  the  exact  meaning 
of  his  Padroncina's  words,  his  expression  changed.  He 
shook  his  head  vigorously. 

' '  Not  true !"  he  said.  ' '  Not  true !  No  matter — there 
is  not  no  matter  with  my  Padrona." 

"But  Gaspare — " 

Vere  protested,  explained,  strong  in  her  conviction  of 
the  change  in  her  mother. 

But  Gaspare  would  not  have  it.  With  energetic  gest- 
ures he  affirmed  that  his  Padrona  was  just  as  usual. 
But  Vere  surprised  a  look  in  his  eyes  which  told  her  he 
was  watching  her  to  see  if  he  deceived  her.  Then  she 
realized  that  for  some  reason  of  his  own  Gaspare  did  not 
wish  her  to  know  that  he  had  seen  the  change,  wished 
also  to  detach  her  observation  from  her  mother. 

She  wondered  why  this  was. 

Her  busy  mind  could  not  arrive  at  any  conclusion  in 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

the  matter,  but  she  knew  her  mother  was  secretly  sad. 
And  she  knew  that  she  and  her  mother  were  no  longer 
at  ease  with  each  other.  This  pained  her,  and  the  pain 
was  beginning  to  increase.  Sometimes  she  felt  as  if  her 
mother  disliked  something  in  her,  and  did  not  choose 
to  say  so,  and  was  irritated  by  the  silence  that  she  kept. 
But  what  could  it  be  ?  She  searched  among  her  doings 
carefully.  Had  she  failed  in  any  way  in  her  conduct  tow- 
ards her  mother?  Had  she  been  lacking  in  anything? 
Certainly  she  had  not  been  lacking  in  love.  And  her 
knowledge  of  that  seemed  simply  to  exclude  any  possi- 
bility of  serious  shortcomings.  And  her  mother  ? 

Vere  remembered  how  her  mother  had  once  longed  to 
have  a  son,  how  she  had  felt  certain  she  was  going  to 
have  a  son.  Could  it  be  that?  Could  her  mother  be 
dogged  by  that  disappointment?  She  felt  chilled  to 
the  heart  at  that  idea.  Her  warm  nature  protested 
against  it.  The  love  she  gave  to  her  mother  was  so 
complete  that  it  had  always  assumed  the  completeness 
of  that  which  it  was  given  in  return.  But  it  might  be 
so,  Vere  supposed.  It  was  possible.  She  pondered 
over  this  deeply,  and  when  she  was  with  her  mother 
watched  for  signs  that  might  confirm  or  dispel  her 
fears.  And  thus  she  opposed  to  the  mother's  new 
watchfulness  the  watchfulness  of  the  child.  And  Her- 
mione  noticed  it,  and  wondered  whether  Vere  had  any 
suspicion  of  the  surreptitious  reading  of  her  poems. 

But  that  was  scarcely  possible. 

Hermione  had  not  said  a  word  to  Vere  of  her  discov- 
ery that  Peppina  had  done  what  she  had  been  told  not 
to  do — related  the  story  of  her  fate.  Almost  all  delicate- 
minded  mothers  and  daughters  find  certain  subjects 
difficult,  if  not  impossible  of  discussion,  even  when  an 
apparent  necessity  of  their  discussion  arrives  in  the 
course  of  life.  The  present  reserve  between  Hermione 
and  Vere  rendered  even  the  idea  of  any  plain  speaking 

416 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

about  the  revelation  of  Peppina  quite  insupportable 
to  the  mother.  She  could  only  pretend  to  ignore  that 
it  had  ever  been  made.  And  this  she  did.  But  now 
that  she  knew  of  it  she  felt  very  acutely  the  difference 
it  had  made  in  Vere.  That  difference  was  owing  to 
her  own  impulsive  action.  And  Emile  knew  the  whole 
truth.  She  understood  now  what  he  had  been  going 
to  say  about  Peppina  and  Vere  when  they  had  talked 
about  the  books. 

He  did  condemn  her  in  his  heart.  He  thought  she 
was  not  a  neglectful,  but  a  mistaken  mother.  He 
thought  her  so  impulsive  as  to  be  dangerous,  perhaps, 
even  to  those  she  loved  best.  Almost  she  divined  that 
curious  desire  of  his  to  protect  Vere  against  her.  And 
yet  without  her  impulsive  nature  he  himself  might  long 
ago  have  died. 

She  coiild  not  help  at  this  time  dwelling  secretly  on 
one  or  two  actions  of  hers,  could  not  help  saying  to  her- 
self now  and  then:  "I  have  been  some  good  in  the  world. 
I  am  capable  of  unselfishness  sometimes.  I  did  leave 
my  happiness  for  Emile 's  sake,  because  I  had  a  great 
ideal  of  friendship  and  was  determined  to  live  up  to  it. 
My  impulses  are  not  always  crazy  and  ridiculous." 

She  did  this,  she  was  obliged  to  do  it,  to  prevent  the 
feeling  of  impotence  from  overwhelming  her.  She  had 
to  do  it  to  give  herself  strength  to  get  up  out  of  the  dust. 
The  human  creature  dares  not  say  to  itself,  "You  are 
nothing."  And  now  Hermione,  feeling  the  withdrawal 
from  her  of  her  friend,  believing  in  the  withdrawal  from 
her  of  her  child,  spoke  to  herself,  pleading  her  own 
cause  to  her  own  soul  against  invisible  detractors. 

One  visitor  the  island  had  at  this  time.  Each  evening, 
when  the  darkness  fell,  the  boat  of  Ruffo's  employer 
glided  into  the  Pool  of  San  Francesco.  And  the  boy 
always  came  ashore  while  his  companions  slept.  Since 
Hermione  had  been  charitable  to  his  mother,  and  since 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

he  had  explained  to  her  about  his  Patrigno  and  Peppina, 
he  evidently  had  something  of  the  ready  feeling  that 
springs  up  in  Sicilians  in  whom  real  interest  has  been 
shown — the  feeling  of  partly  belonging  to  his  benefactor. 
There  is  something  dog-like  in  this  feeling.  And  it  is 
touching  and  attractive  because  of  the  animalism  of  its 
frankness  and  simplicity.  And  as  the  dog  who  has  been 
kindly,  tenderly  treated  has  no  hesitation  in  claiming 
attention  with  a  paw,  or  in  laying  its  muzzle  upon  the 
knee  of  its  benefactor,  so  Ruffo  had  no  hesitation  in 
relating  to  Hermione  all  the  little  intimate  incidents 
of  his  daily  life,  in  crediting  her  with  an  active  interest 
in  his  concerns.  There  was  no  conceit  in  this,  only  a 
very  complete  boyish  simplicity. 

Hermione  found  in  this  new  attitude  of  Ruffo 's  a 
curious  solace  for  the  sudden  loneliness  of  soul  that 
had  come  upon  her.  Originally  Ruffo 's  chief  friendship 
had  obviously  been  for  Vere,  but  now  Vere,  seeing  her 
mother's  new  and  deep  interest  in  the  boy,  gave  way  a 
little  to  it,  yet  without  doing  anything  ostentatious,  or 
showing  any  pique.  Simply  she  would  stay  in  the 
garden,  or  on  the  terrace,  later  than  usual,  till  after 
Rtiffo  was  sure  to  be  at  the  island,  and  let  her  mother 
stroll  to  the  cliff  top.  Or,  if  she  were  there  with  him 
first,  she  would  soon  make  an  excuse  to  go  away,  and 
casually  tell  her  mother  that  he  was  there  alone  or  with 
Gaspare.  And  all  this  was  done  so  naturally  that  Her- 
mione did  not  know  it  was  deliberate,  but  merely  fan- 
cied that  perhaps  Vere's  first  enthusiasm  for  the  fisher- 
boy  was  wearing  off,  that  it  had  been  a  child's  sudden 
fancy,  and  that  it  was  lightly  passing  away. 

Vere  rather  wondered  at  her  mother's  liking  for  Ruffo, 
although  she  herself  had  found  him  so  attractive,  and 
had  drawn  her  mother's  attention  to  his  handsome  face 
and  bold,  yet  simple  bearing.  She  wondered,  because 
she.  felt  in  it  something  peculiar,  a  sort  of  heat  and 

418 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

anxiety,  a  restlessness,  a  watchfulness;  attributes  which 
sprang  from  the  observation  of  that  resemblance  to  the 
dead  man  which  drew  her  mother  to  Ruffo,  but  of  which 
her  mother  had  never  spoken  to  her. 

Nor  did  Hermione  speak  of  it  again  to  Gaspare.  He 
had  almost  angrily  denied  it,  but  since  the  night  of 
Artois'  visit  she  knew  that  he  had  seen  it,  been  startled, 
moved  by  it,  almost  as  she  had  been. 

She  knew  that  quite  well.  Yet  Gaspare  puzzled  her. 
He  had  become  moody,  nervous,  and  full  of  changes. 
She  seemed  to  discern  sometimes  a  latent  excitement  in 
him.  His  temper  was  uneven.  Giulia  had  said  that 
one  could  not  speak  with  him.  Since  that  day  she  had 
grumbled  about  him  again,  but  discreetly,  with  a  cer- 
tain vagueness.  For  all  the  servants  thoroughly  ap- 
preciated his  special  position  in  the  household  as  the 
"cameriere  di  confidenza"  of  the  Padrona.  One  thing 
which  drew  Hermione's  special  attention  was  his  ex- 
traordinary watchfulness  of  her.  When  they  were  to- 
gether she  frequently  surprised  him  looking  at  her  with 
a  sort  of  penetrating  and  almost  severe  scrutiny  which 
startled  her.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  she  showed  that 
she  was  startled. 

"What's  the  matter,  Gaspare?"  she  said,  one  day 
"Do  I  look  ill  again?" 

For  she  had  remembered  his  looking  at  her  in  the 
boat. 

"No,  Signora,"  he  answered,  this  time,  quickly.  "You 
are  not  looking  ill  to-day." 

And  he  moved  off,  as  if  anxious  to  avoid  further  ques- 
tioning. 

Another  time  she  thought  that  there  was  something 
wrong  with  her  dress,  or  her  hair,  and  said  so. 

"Is  there  anything  wrong  with  me?"  she  exclaimed. 
"What  is  it?"  And  she  instinctively  glanced  down  at 
her  gown,  and  put  up  her  hands  to  her  head. 

419 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

And  this  time  he  had  turned  it  off  with  a  laugh,  and 
had  said: 

"Signora,  you  are  like  the  Signorina!  Once  she  told 
me  I  was — I  was" — he  shook  his  head — "I  forget  the 
word.  But  I  am  sure  it  was  something  that  a  man 
could  never  be.  Per  dio!" 

And  then  he  had  gone  off  into  a  rambling  conversation 
that  had  led  Hermione's  attention  far  away  from  the 
starting-point  of  their  talk. 

Vere,  too,  noticed  the  variations  of  his  demeanor. 

"Gaspare  was  very  'jumpy'  to-day  in  the  boat,"  she 
said,  one  evening,  after  returning  from  a  sail;  "I  won- 
der what's  the  matter  with  him.  Do  you  think  he  can 
be  in  love,  Madre?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  he  is  fidanzato,  Vere,  with  a  girl 
in  Marechiaro,  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  but  that  lasts  forever.  When  I  speak  of  it  he 
always  says:  'There  is  plenty  of  time,  Signorina.  If 
one  marries  in  a  hurry,  one  makes  two  faces  ugly!'  I 
should  think  the  girl  must  be  sick  of  waiting." 

Hermione  was  sure  that  there  was  some  very  definite 
reason  for  Gaspare's  curious  behavior,  but  she  could  not 
imagine  what  it  was.  That  it  was  not  anything  to  do 
with  his  health  she  had  speedily  ascertained.  Any  small 
discipline  of  Providence  in  the  guise  of  a  cold  in  the 
head,  or  a  pain  in  the  stomach,  despatched  him  prompt- 
ly to  the  depths.  But  he  had  told  her  that  he  was  per- 
fectly well  and  "made  of  iron,"  when  she  had  questioned 
him  on  the  subject. 

She  supposed  time  would  elucidate  the  mystery,  and 
meanwhile  she  knew  it  was  no  use  troubling  about  it. 
Years  had  taught  her  that  when  Gaspare  chose  to  be 
silent  not  heaven  nor  earth  could  make  him  speak. 

Although  Vere  could  not  know  why  Ruffo  attracted 
her  mother,  Hermione  knew  that  Gaspare  must  under- 
stand, at  any  rate  partially,  why  she  cared  so  much  to 

420 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

be  with  him.  During  the  days  between  the  last  visit 
of  Artois  and  the  Festa  of  the  Madonna  del  Carmine 
her  acquaintance  with  the  boy  had  progressed  so  rapidly 
that  sometimes  she  found  herself  wondering  what  the 
days  had  been  like  before  she  knew  him,  the  evenings 
before  his  boat  slipped  into  the  Saint's  Pool,  and  his 
light  feet  ran  up  from  the  water's  edge  to  the  cliff  top. 
Possibly,  had  Ruffo  come  into  her  life  when  she  was  com- 
paratively happy  and  at  ease,  she  would  never  have 
drawn  so  closely  to  him,  despite  the  resemblance  that 
stirred  her  to  the  heart.  But  he  came  when  she  was 
feeling  specially  lonely  and  sad;  and  when  he,  too,  was 
in  trouble.  Both  wanted  sympathy.  Hermione  gave 
Ruffo  hers  in  full  measure.  She  could  not  ask  for  his. 
But  giving  had  always  been  her  pleasure.  It  was  her 
pleasure  now.  And  she  drew  happiness  from  the  ob- 
vious and  growing  affection  of  the  boy.  Perfectly  nat- 
ural at  all  times,  he  kept  back  little  from  the  kind  lady 
of  the  island.  He  told  her  the  smallest  details  of  his 
daily  life,  his  simple  hopes  and  fears,  his  friendships 
and  quarrels,  his  relations  with  the  other  fishermen  of 
Mergellina,  his  intentions  in  the  present,  his  ambitions 
for  the  future.  Some  day  he  hoped  to  be  the  Padrone 
of  a  boat  of  his  own.  That  seemed  to  be  the  ultimate 
aim  of  his  life.  Hermione  smiled  as  she  heard  it,  and 
saw  his  eyes  shining  with  the  excitement  of  anticipa- 
tion. When  he  spoke  the  word  "Padrone,"  his  little 
form  seemed  to  expand  with  authority  and  conscious 
pride.  He  squared  his  shoulders.  He  looked  almost 
a  man.  The  pleasures  of  command  dressed  all  his  per- 
son, as  flags  dress  a  ship  on  a  festival  day.  He  stood 
before  Hermione  a  boy  exuberant. 

And  she  thought  of  Maurice  bounding  down  the 
mountain-side  to  the  fishing,  and  rousing  the  night  with 
his  "Ciao,  Ciao,  Ciao,  Morettina  bella — Ciao!" 

But  Ruffo  was  sometimes  reserved.  Hermione  could 

421 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

not  make  him  speak  of  his  father.  All  she  knew  of  him 
was  that  he  was  dead.  Sometimes  she  gave  Ruffo  good 
advice.  She  divined  the  dangers  of  Naples  for  a  lad 
with  the  blood  bounding  in  his  veins,  and  she  dwelt 
upon  the  pride  of  man's  strength,  and  how  he  should  be 
careful  to  preserve  it,  and  not  dissipate  it  before  it  came 
to  maturity.  She  did  not  speak  very  plainly,  but  Ruffo 
understood,  and  answered  her  with  the  unconscious 
frankness  that  is  characteristic  of  the  people  of  the  South. 
And  at  the  end  of  his  remarks  he  added: 

"Don  Gaspare  has  talked  to  me  about  that.  Don  Gas- 
pare knows  much,  Signora." 

He  spoke  with  deep  respect.  Hermione  was  surprised 
by  this  little  revelation.  Was  Gaspare  secretly  watching 
over  this  boy?  Did  he  concern  himself  seriously  with 
Ruffo's  fate  ?  She  longed  to  question  Gaspare.  But 
she  knew  that  to  do  so  would  be  useless.  Even  with  her 
Gaspare  would  only  speak  freely  of  things  when  he 
chose.  At  other  times  he  was  calmly  mute.  He  wrap- 
ped himself  in  a  cloud.  She  wondered  whether  he  had 
ever  given  Ruffo  any  hints  or  instructions  as  to  suitable 
conduct  when  with  her. 

Although  Ruffo  was  so  frank  and  garrulous  about 
most  things,  she  noticed  that  if  she  began  to  speak  of 
his  mother  or  his  Patrigno,  his  manner  changed,  and  he 
became  uncommunicative.  Was  this  owing  to  Gaspare's 
rather  rough  rebuke  upon  the  cliff  before  Artois  and  Vere  ? 
Or  had  Gaspare  emphasized  that  by  further  directions 
when  alone  with  Ruffo?  She  tried  deftly  to  find  out, 
but  the  boy  baffled  her.  But  perhaps  he  was  delicate 
about  money,  unlike  Neapolitans,  and  feared  that  if 
he  talked  too  much  of  his  mother  the  lady  of  the  island 
would  think  he  was  "making  misery,"  was  hoping  for 
another  twenty  francs.  As  to  his  Patrigno,  the  fact 
that  Peppina  was  living  on  the  island  made  that  subject 
rather  a  difficult  one.  Nevertheless,  Hermione  could 

422 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

not  help  suspecting  that  Gaspare  had  told  the  boy  not 
to  bother  her  with  any  family  troubles. 

She  had  not  offered  him  money  again.  The  giving 
of  the  twenty  francs  had  been  a  .sudden  impulse  to  help 
a  suffering  woman,  less  because  she  was  probably  in 
poverty  than  because  she  was  undoubtedly  made  un- 
happy by  her  husband.  Since  she  had  suffered  at  the 
hands  of  death,  Hermione  felt  very  pitiful  for  women. 
She  wonld  gladly  have  gone  to  see  Ruffo's  mother, 
have  striven  to  help  her  more,  both  materially  and 
morally.  But  as  to  a  visit — Pcppina  seemed  to  bar  the 
way.  And  as  to  more  money  help — she  remembered 
Gaspare's  warning.  Perhaps  he  knew  something  of  the 
mother  that  she  did  not  know.  Perhaps  the  mother 
was  an  objectionable,  or  even  a  wicked  woman. 

But  when  she  looked  at  Ruffo  she  could  not  believe 
that.  And  then  several  times  he  had  spoken  with  great 
affection  of  his  mother. 

She  left  things  as  they  were,  taking  her  cue  from  the 
boy  in  despite  of  her  desire.  And  here,  as  in  some  other 
directions,  she  was  secretly  governed  by  Gaspare. 

Only  sometimes  did  she  see  in  Ruffo's  face  the  look 
that  had  drawn  her  to  him.  The  resemblance  to  Mau- 
rice was  startling,  but  it  was  nearly  always  fleeting. 
She  could  not  tell  when  it  was  coming,  nor  retain  it  when 
it  came.  But  she  noticed  that  it  was  generally  when 
Ruffo  was  moved  by  affection,  by  a  sudden  sympathy, 
by  a  warm  and  deferent  impulse  that  the  look  came 
in  him.  And  again  she  thought  of  the  beautiful  obe- 
dience that  springs  directly  from  love,  of  Merctiry 
poised  for  flight  to  the  gods,  his  mission  happily  ac- 
complished. 

She  wondered  if  Artois  had  ever  thought  of  it  when 
he  was  with  Ruffo.  But  she  felt  now  that  she  could 
never  ask  him. 

And,  indeed,  she  cherished  her  knowledge,  her  recog- 
423 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

nition,  as  something  almost  sacred,  silently  shared  with 
Gaspare. 

To  no  one  could  that  look  mean  what  it  meant  to  her. 
To  no  other  heart  could  it  make  the  same  appeal. 

And  so  in  those  few  days  between  Hermione  and  the 
fisher-boy  a  firm  friendship  was  established. 

And  to  Hermione  this  friendship  came  like  a  small 
ray  of  brightly  golden  light,  falling  gently  in  a  place  that 
was  very  dark. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

WHEN  the  Marchesino  received  the  invitation  of  Artois 
to  dine  with  him  and  the  ladies  from  the  island  on  the 
night  of  the  Festa  of  the  Madonna  del  Carmine  he  was 
again  ill  in  bed  with  fever.  But  nevertheless  he  returned 
an  immediate  acceptance.  Then  he  called  in  the  family 
doctor,  and  violently  demanded  to  be  made  well,  "per- 
fectly well,"  by  the  evening  of  the  sixteenth.  The 
doctor,  who  guessed  at  once  that  some  amorous  ad- 
venture was  on  foot,  promised  to  do  his  best,  and  so 
ingeniously  plied  his  patient  with  drugs  and  potions  that 
on  the  sixteenth  Doro  was  out  of  bed,  and  busily  doing 
gymnastics  to  test  his  strength  for  the  coming  campaign. 

Artois'  invitation  had  surprised  him.  He  had  lost 
all  faith  in  his  friend,  and  at  first  almost  suspected  an 
ambush.  Emilio  had  not  invited  him  out  of  love — that 
was  certain.  But  perhaps  the  ladies  of  the  island  had 
desired  his  presence,  his  escort.  He  was  a  Neapolitan. 
He  knew  the  ways  of  the  city.  That  was  probably  the 
truth.  They  wanted  him,  and  Emilio  had  been  obliged 
to  ask  him. 

He  saw  his  opportunity.  His  fever,  coming  at  such  a 
time,  had  almost  maddened  him,  and  during  the  days  of 
forced  inaction  the  Panacci  temper  had  been  vigorously 
displayed  in  the  home  circle.  As  he  lay  in  bed  his  im- 
agination ran  riot.  The  day  and  the  night  were  filled 
with  thoughts  and  dreams  of  Vere.  And  always  Emilio 
was  near  her,  presiding  over  her  doings  with  a  false 
imitation  of  the  paternal  manner. 

42$ 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

But  now  at  the  last  the  Marchesino  saw  his  oppor- 
tunity to  strike  a  blow  at  Emilio.  Every  year  of  his 
life  since  he  was  a  child  he  had  been  to  the  festa  in  honor 
of  the  Madonna  del  Carmine.  He  knew  the  crowds  that 
assembled  under  the  prison  walls  and  beneath  Nuvolo's 
tall  belfry,  the  crowds  that  overflowed  into  the  gaunt 
Square  of  the  Mercato  and  streamed  down  the  avenues 
of  fire  into  the  narrow  side  streets.  In  those  crowds  it 
would  be  easy  to  get  lost.  Emilio,  when  he  heard  his 
friend's  voice  singing,  had  hidden  with  the  Signorina 
in  the  darkness  of  a  cave.  He  might  be  alone  with  the 
Signorina  when  he  would.  The  English  ladies  trusted 
his  white  hairs.  Or  the  English  ladies  did  not  care  for 
the  convenances.  Since  he  had  found  Peppina  in  the 
Casa  del  Mare,  the  Marchesino  did  not  know  what  to 
think  of  its  Padrona.  And  now  he  was  too  reckless  to 
care.  He  only  knew  that  he  was  in  love,  and  that  cir- 
cumstances so  far  had  fought  against  him.  He  only 
knew  that  he  had  been  tricked,  and  that  he  meant  to 
trick  Emilio  in  return.  His  anxiety  to  revenge  himself 
on  Emilio  was  quite  as  keen  as  his  desire  to  be  alone  with 
Vere.  The  natural  devilry  of  his  temperament,  a  boy's 
devilry,  not  really  wicked,  but  compounded  of  sen- 
suality, vanity,  the  passion  for  conquest,  and  the  de- 
termination to  hold  his  own  against  other  males  and  to 
shine  in  his  world's  esteem,  was  augmented  by  abstinence 
from  his  usual  life.  The  few  days  in  the  house  seemed 
to  him  a  lifetime  already  wasted.  He  meant  to  make  up 
for  it,  and  he  did  not  care  at  whose  expense,  so  long  as 
some  of  the  debt  was  paid  by  Emilio. 

On  the  sixteenth  he  issued  forth  into  life  again  in  a 
mood  that  was  dangerous.  The  fever  that  had  aban- 
doned his  body  was  raging  in  his  mind.  He  was  in  the 
temper  which  had  governed  his  papa  on  the  day  of  the 
slapping  of  Signora  Merani's  face  in  the  Chiaia. 

The  Marchesino  always  thought  a  great  deal  about 

426 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

his  personal  appearance,  but  his  toilet  on  the  night  of  the 
sixteenth  was  unusually  prolonged.  On  several  matters 
connected  with  it  he  was  undecided.  Should  he  wear  a 
waistcoat  of  white  pique  or  one  of  black  silk  ?  Should  he 
put  on  a  white  tie,  or  a  black?  And  what  about  rings? 

He  loved  jewelry,  as  do  most  Neapolitans,  both  male 
and  female,  and  had  quantities  of  gaudy  rings,  studs, 
sleeve-links,  and  waistcoat  buttons.  In  his  present  mood 
he  was  inclined  to  adorn  himself  with  as  many  of  them 
as  possible.  But  he  was  not  sure  whether  the  English 
liked  diamonds  and  rubies  on  a  man.  He  hesitated  long, 
made  many  changes,  and  looked  many  times  in  the 
glass.  At  last  he  decided  on  a  black  tie,  a  white  waist- 
coat with  pearl  buttons,  a  pearl  shirt-stud  surrounded 
with  diamonds,  pearl  and  diamond  sleeve-links,  and 
only  three  rings — a  gold  snake,  a  seal  ring,  and  a  ring 
set  with  turquoises.  This  was  a  modest  toilet,  suited, 
surely,  to  the  taste  of  the  English,  which  he  remembered 
to  have  heard  of  as  sober. 

He  stood  long  before  the  mirror  when  he  was  ready, 
and  had  poured  over  his  handkerchief  a  libation  of 
"Rose  d' amour." 

Certainly  he  was  a  fine-looking  fellow — his  natural 
sincerity  obliged  him  to  acknowledge  it.  Possibly  his 
nose  stuck  out  too  much  to  balance  perfectly  the  low 
forehead  and  the  rather  square  chin.  Possibly  his  cheek- 
bones were  too  prominent.  But  what  of  that  ?  Women 
always  looked  at  a  man's  figure,  his  eyes,  his  teeth,  his 
mustaches.  And  he  had  a  splendid  figure,  enormous 
gray  eyes,  large  and  perfectly  even  white  teeth  between 
lips  that  were  very  full  and  very  red,  and  blond  mus- 
taches whose  turned-up  points  were  like  a  cry  of  victory. 

He  drew  himself  up  from  the  hips,  enlarged  his  eyes 
by  opening  them  exaggeratedly,  stretched  his  lips  till 
his  teeth  were  well  exposed,  and  vehemently  twisted 
the  ends  of  his  mustaches. 
.3  427 


Yes,  he  was  a  very  handsome  fellow,  and  boyish  - 
looking,  too — but  not  too  boyish. 

It  really  was  absurd  of  Emilio  to  think  of  cutting  him 
out  with  a  girl — Emilio,  an  old  man,  all  beard  and  brains! 
As  if  any  living  woman  really  cared  for  brains!  Imper- 
tinence, gayety,  agility,  muscle — that  was  what  women 
loved  in  men.  And  he  had  all  they  wanted. 

He  rilled  his  case  with  cigarettes,  slipped  on  a  very 
smart  fawn-colored  coat,  cocked  a  small-brimmed  black 
bowler  hat  over  his  left  ear,  picked  up  a  pair  of  white 
gloves  and  a  cane  surmounted  by  a  bunch  of  golden 
grapes,  and  hurried  down-stairs,  humming  "Lili  Kangy," 
the  "canzonetta  birichina"  that  was  then  the  rage  in 
Naples. 

The  dinner  was  to  be  at  the  Hotel  des  Etrangers.  On 
consideration,  Artois  had  decided  against  the  Galleria. 
He  had  thought  of  those  who  wander  there,  of  Peppina's 
aunt,  of  certain  others.  And  then  he  had  thought  of 
Vere.  And  his  decision  was  quickly  taken.  When  the 
Marchesino  arrived,  Artois  was  alone  in  his  sitting-room. 
The  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  as  they  met, 
and  Artois  saw  at  once  that  Doro  was  in  a  state  of  sup- 
pressed excitement  and  not  in  a  gentle  mood.  Although 
Doro  generally  seemed  full  of  good-humor,  and  readiness 
to  please  and  to  be  pleased,  he  could  look  very  cruel. 
And  when,  in  rare  moments,  he  did  so,  his  face  seemed 
almost  to  change  its  shape:  the  cheek-bones  to  become 
more  salient,  the  nose  sharper,  the  eyes  catlike,  the 
large  but  well -shaped  mouth  venomous  instead  of 
passionate.  He  looked  older  and  also  commoner  direct- 
ly his  insouciance  departed  from  him,  and  one  could 
divine  a  great  deal  of  primitive  savagery  beneath  his 
lively  grace  and  boyish  charm. 

But  to-night,  directly  he  spoke  to  Artois,  his  natural 
humor  seemed  to  return.  He  explained  his  illness, 
which  accounted  for  his  not  having  come  as  usual  to  see 

428 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

his  friend,  and  drew  a  humorous  picture  of  a  Panacci  in 
a  bed  surrounded  by  terror-stricken  nurses. 

"And  you,  Emilio,  what  have  you  been  doing?"  he 
concluded. 

"Working,"  said  Artois. 

He  pointed  to  his  writing-table,  on  which  lay  a  pile 
of  manuscript. 

The  Marchesino  glanced  at  it  carelessly,  but  the  two 
vertical  lines  suddenly  appeared  in  his  forehead  just 
above  the  inside  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"Work!  work!"  he  said.  "You  make  me  feel  quite 
guilty,  amico  mio.  I  live  for  happiness,  for  love.  But 
you — you  live  for  duty." 

He  put  his  arm  through  his  friend's  with  a  laugh,  and 
drew  him  towards  the  balcony. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  added,  "even  you  have  your 
moments  of  pleasure,  haven't  you?" 

He  pressed  Artois'  arm  gently,  but  in  the  touch  of  his 
ringers  there  was  something  that  seemed  to  hint  a  long- 
ing to  close  them  violently  and  cause  a  shudder  of  pain. 

"Even  you  have  moments  when  the  brain  goes  to 
sleep  and — and  the  body  wakes  up.  Eh,  Emilio? 
Isn't  it  true?" 

"My  dear  Doro,  when  have  I  claimed  to  be  unlike 
other  men?" 

"No,  no!  But  you  workers  inspire  reverence,  you 
know.  We,  who  do  not  work,  we  see  your  pale  faces, 
your  earnest  eyes,  and  we  think— mon  Dieu,  Emilio! — 
we  think  you  are  saints.  And  then,  if,  by  chance,  one 
evening  we  go  to  the  Galleria,  and  find  it  is  not  so,  that 
you  are  like  ourselves,  we  are  glad." 

He  began  to  laugh. 

"We  are  glad;  we  feel  no  longer  at  a  disadvantage." 

Again  he  pressed  Artois'  arm  gently. 

"But,  amico  mio,  you  are  deceptive,  you  workers," 
he  said.  "You  take  us  all  in.  We  are  children  beside 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

you,  we  who  say  all  we  feel,  who  show  when  we  hate 
and  when  we  love.  We  are  babies.  If  I  ever  want  to 
become  really  birbante,  I  shall  become  a  worker." 

He  spoke  always  lightly,  laughingly;  but  Artois  un- 
derstood the  malice  at  his  heart,  and  hesitated  for  a 
moment  whether  to  challenge  it  quietly  and  firmly,  cr 
whether  laughingly  to  accept  the  sly  imputations  of 
secrecy,  of  hypocrisy,  in  a  "not-worth-while"  temper, 
If  things  developed — and  Artois  felt  that  they  must 
with  such  a  protagonist  as  the  Marchesino — a  situation 
might  arise  in  which  Doro's  enmity  must  come  out  into 
the  open  and  be  dealt  with  drastically.  Till  then  was 
it  not  best  to  ignore  it,  to  fall  in  with  his  apparent 
frivolity  ?  Before  Artois  could  decide — for  his  natural 
temper  and  an  under-sense  of  prudence  and  contempt 
pulled  different  ways — the  Marchesino  suddenly  re- 
leased his  arm,  leaned  over  the  balcony  rail,  and  looked 
eagerly  down  the  road.  A  carriage  had  just  rattled  up 
from  the  harbor  of  Santa  Lucia  only  a  few  yards  away. 

"Ecco!"  he  exclaimed.  "Ecco!  But — but  who  is 
with  them?" 

"Only  Gaspare,"  replied  Artois. 

"Gaspare!  That  servant  who  came  to  the  Guisep- 
pone  ?  Oh,  no  doubt  he  has  rowed  the  ladies  over  and 
will  return  to  the  boat?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  I  think  the  Signora  will  bring  him 
to  the  Carmine." 

"Why?"  said  the  Marchesino,  sharply. 

4 '  Why  not  ?  He  is  a  strong  fellow,  and  might  be  useful 
in  a  crowd." 

"Are  not  we  strong?     Are  not  we  useful?" 

"My  dear  Doro,  what's  the  matter?" 

"  Niente — niente !" 

He  tugged  at  his  mustaches. 

"Only  I  think  the  Signora  might  trust  to  us." 

''Tell  her  so,  if  you  like.     Here  she  is." 
430 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Hermione  came 
in,  followed  by  Vere. 

As  Artois  went  to  welcome  them  he  was  aware  of  a 
strange  mixture  of  sensations,  which  made  these  two 
dear  and  close  friends,  these  intimates  of  his  life,  seem 
almost  new.  He  was  acutely  conscious  of  the  mist  of 
which  Hermione  had  thought.  He  wondered  about  her, 
as  she  about  him.  He  saw  again  that  face  in  the  night 
under  the  trellis.  He  heard  the  voice  that  had  called 
to  him  and  Vere  in  the  garden.  And  he  knew  that 
enmity,  mysterious  yet  definite,  might  arise  even  be- 
tween Hermione  and  him;  that  even  they  two — inex- 
orably under  the  law  that  has  made  all  human  beings 
separate  entities,  and  incapable  of  perfect  fusion — • 
might  be  victims  of  misunderstanding,  of  ignorance  of 
the  absolute  truth  of  personality.  Even  now  he  was 
companioned  by  the  sudden  and  horrible  doubt  which 
had  attacked  him  in  the  garden:  that  perhaps  she  had 
been  always  playing  a  part  when  she  had  seemed  to 
be  deeply  interested  in  his  work,  that  perhaps  there  was 
within  her  some  one  whom  he  did  not  know,  had  never 
even  caught  a  glimpse  of  until  lately,  once  when  she 
was  in  the  tram  going  to  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio,  and  once 
the  last  time  they  had  met.  And  yet  this  was  the 
woman  who  had  nursed  him  in  Africa — and  this  was  the 
woman  against  whose  impulsive  actions  he  had  had  the 
instinct  to  protect  Vere — the  Hermione  Delarey  whom 
he  had  known  for  so  many  years. 

Never  before  had  he  looked  at  Hermione  quite  as  he 
looked  at  her  to-night.  His  sense  of  her  strangeness 
woke  up  in  him  something  that  was  ill  at  ease,  doubtful, 
almost  even  suspicious,  but  also  something  that  was 
quivering  with  interest. 

For  years  this  woman  had  been  to  him  "dear  Her- 
mione,"  "ma  pauvre  amie,"  comrade,  sympathizer, 
nurse,  mother  of  Vere. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Now — what  else  was  she?  A  human  creature  with  a 
heart  and  brain  capable  of  mystery;  a  soul  with  room 
in  it  for  secret  things;  a  temple  whose  outside  he  had 
seen,  but  whose  god,  perhaps,  he  had  never  seen. 

And  Vere  was  involved  in  her  mother's  strangeness, 
and  had  her  own  strangeness  too.  Of  that  he  had  been 
conscious  before  to-night.  For  Vere  was  being  formed. 
The  plastic  fingers  were  at  work  about  her,  moulding 
her  into  what  she  must  be  as  a  woman. 

But  Hermione!     She  had  been  a  woman  so  long. 

Perhaps,  too,  she  was  standing  on  the  brink  of  a 
precipice.  That  suspicion,  that  fear,  not  to  be  banished 
by  action,  added  to  the  curiosity,  as  about  an  unknown 
land,  that  she  aroused. 

And  the  new  and  vital  sense  of  Hermione 's  strangeness 
which  was  alive  in  Artois  was  met  by  a  feeling  in  her 
that  was  akin  to  it,  only  of  the  feminine  sex. 

Their  eyes  encountered  like  eyes  that  say,  "What  are 
you?" 

After  swift  greeting  they  went  down-stairs  to  dine  in 
the  public  room.  As  there  were  but  few  people  in  the 
house,  the  large  dining-room  was  not  in  use,  and  their 
table  was  laid  in  the  small  restaurant  that  looks  out  on 
the  Marina,  and  was  placed  close  to  the  window. 

"At  last  we  are  repeating  our  partie  carree  of  the 
Giuseppone,"  said  Artois,  as  they  sat  down. 

He  felt  that  as  host  he  must  release  himself  from  sub- 
tleties and  under-feelings,must  stamp  down  his  conscious- 
ness of  secret  inquiries  and  of  desires  or  hatreds  half- 
concealed.  He  spoke  cheerfully,  even  conventionally. 

"Yes,  but  without  the  storm,"  said  Hermione,  in  the 
same  tone.  "There  is  no  feeling  of  electricity  in  the  air 
to-night." 

Even  while  she  spoke  she  felt  as  if  she  were  telling  a 
lie  which  was  obvious  to  them  all.  And  she  could  not 
help  glancing  hastily  round.  She  met  the  large  round 

432 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

eyes  of  the  Marchesiho,  eyes  without  subtlety  though 
often  expressive. 

"No,  Signora,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her,  rather  obvious- 
ly to  captivate  her  by  the  sudden  vision  of  his  superb 
teeth — "La  Bruna  is  safe  to-night." 

"La  Bruna?" 

"The  Madonna  del  Carmine." 

They  talked  of  the  coming  festa. 

Vere  was  rather  quiet,  much  less  vehement  in  appear- 
ance and  lively  in  manner  than  she  had  been  at  the 
Marchesino's  dinner.  Artois  thought  she  looked  defi- 
nitely older  than  she  had  then,  though  even  then  she 
had  played  quite  well  the  part  of  a  little  woman  of  the 
world.  There  was  something  subdued  in  her  eyes  to- 
night which  touched  him,  because  it  made  him  imagine 
Vere  sad.  He  wondered  if  she  were  still  troubled  about 
her  mother,  if  she  had  fulfilled  her  intention  and  asked 
Gaspare  what  he  thought.  And  he  longed  to  ask  her, 
to  know  what  Gaspare  had  said.  The  remembrance  of 
Gaspare  made  him  say  to  Hermione: 

"I  gave  orders  that  Gaspare  was  to  have  a  meal  here. 
Did  they  tell  you?" 

"Yes.     He  has  gone  to  the  servants'  room." 

The  Marchesino's  face  changed. 

"Your  Gaspare  seems  indispensable,  Signora,"  he  said 
to  Hermione  in  his  lightest,  most  boyish  manner — a  man- 
ner that  the  determination  in  his  eyes  contradicted  rather 
crudely.  "Do  you  take  him  everywhere,  like  a  little  dog  ?" 

"I  often  take  him — but  not  like  a  little  dog,  Marchese," 
Hermione  said,  quietly. 

"Signora,  I  did  not  mean —  Here,  in  Naples,  we  use 
that  expression  for  anything,  or  any  one,  we  like  to  have 
always  with  us." 

"I  see.  Well,  call  Gaspare  a  watch-dog  if  you  like," 
she  answered,  with  a  smile;  "he  watches  over  me  care- 
fully." 

433 


"A  watch-dog,  Signora!  But  do  you  like  to  be  watch- 
ed? Is  it  not  unpleasant?" 

He  was  speaking  now  to  get  rid  of  the  impression  his 
first  remark  had  evidently  made  upon  her. 

"I  think  it  depends  how,"  she  replied.  "If  Gaspare 
watches  me  it  is  only  to  protect  me — I  am  sure  of  that." 

"But,  Signora,  do  you  not  trust  Don  Emilio,  do  you 
not  trust  me,  to  be  your  watch-dogs  to-night  at  the 
festa  ?" 

There  was  a  little  pressure  in  his  voice,  but  he  still 
preserved  his  light  and  boyish  manner.  And  now  he 
turned  to  Vere. 

"Speak  for  us,  Signorina!  Tell  the  Signora  that  we 
will  take  care  of  her  to-night,  that  there  is  no  need  of  the 
faithful  Gaspare." 

Vere  looked  at  him  gravely.  She  had  wondered  a  little 
why  her  mother  had  brought  Gaspare,  why,  at  least,  she 
had  not  left  him  free  till  they  returned  to  the  boat  at 
Santa  Lucia.  But  her  mother  wanted  him  to  come 
with  them,  and  that  was  enough  for  her.  She  opened 
her  lips,  and  Artois  thought  she  was  going  to  snub  her 
companion.  But  perhaps  she  suddenly  changed  her 
mind,  for  she  only  said: 

"Who  would  trust  you,  Marchese?" 

She  met  his  eyes  with  a  sort  of  child's  impertinence. 
She  had  abruptly  become  the  Vere  of  the  Scoglio  di 
Frisio. 

"Who  would  take  you  for  a  watch-dog?" 

' '  Ma — Signorina ! ' ' 

"As  a  seal — yes,  you  are  all  very  well!     But — •" 

The  young  man  was  immediately  in  the  seventh 
Heaven.  The  Signorina  remembered  his  feats  in  the 
water.  All  his  self-confidence  returned,  all  his  former 
certainty  that  the  Signorina  was  secretly  devoted  to  him. 
His  days  of  doubt  and  fury  were  forgotten.  His  jealousy 
Of  Emilio  vanished  in  a  cloud  of  happy  contempt  for  the 

434 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

disabilities  of  age,  and  he  began  to  talk  to  Vere  with  a 
vivacity  that  was  truly  Neapolitan.  When  the  Mar- 
chesino  was  joyous  he  had  charm,  the  charm  that  ema- 
nates from  the  bounding  life  that  flows  in  the  veins  of 
youth.  Even  the  Puritan  feels,  and  fears,  the  grace  that 
is  Pagan.  The  Marchesino  had  a  Pagan  grace.  And 
now  it  returned  to  him  and  fell  about  him  like  a  gar- 
ment, clothing  body  and  soul.  And  Vere  seemed  to 
respond  to  it.  She  began  to  chatter,  too.  She  talked 
half -serious  nonsense.  She  bantered  her  gay  companion 
lightly,  flicking  him  with  little  whips  of  sarcasm  that  did 
not  hurt,  but  only  urged  him  on.  The  humor  of  a  festa 
night  began  to  flow  from  these  two. 

And  again,  instead  of  infecting  Artois,  it  seemed  to  set 
him  apart,  to  rebuke  silently  his  gifts,  his  fame — to  tell 
him  that  they  were  useless,  that  they  could  do  nothing 
for  him. 

The  Marchesino  was  not  troubled  with  an  intellect. 
Yet  with  what  ease  he  found  words  to  play  with  the 
words  of  Vere!  His  Latin  vivacity  seemed  a  perfect 
substitute  for  thought,  for  imagination,  for  every  sub- 
tlety. He  bubbled  like  champagne.  And  when  cham- 
pagne winks  and  foams  at  the  edge  of  the  shining  glass, 
do  the  young  think  of,  or  care  for,  the  sober  gravity, 
the  lingering  bouquet  of  claret,  even  if  it  be  Chateau 
Margaux  ? 

As  Artois  half  listened  to  the  young  people,  while  he 
talked  quietly  with  Hermione,  playing  the  host  with 
discretion,  he  felt  the  peculiar  cruelty  which  ordains 
that  the  weapons  of  youth,  even  if  taken  up  and  used 
by  age  with  vigor  and  competence,  shall  be  only  reeds 
in  those  hands  whose  lines  tell  of  the  life  behind. 

Yet  how  Vere  and  he  had  laughed  together  on  the 
day  of  his  return  from  Paris!  One  gust  of  such  mutual 
laughter  is  worth  how  many  days  of  earnest  talk! 

Vere  was  gleaming  with  fun  to-night. 

435 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  waiters,  as  they  went  softly  about  tne  table, 
looked  at  her  with  kind  eyes.  Secretly  they  were  en- 
joying her  gayety  because  it  was  so  pretty.  Her  merri- 
ment was  as  airy  as  the  flight  of  a  bird. 

The  Marchesino  was  entranced.  Did  she  care  for 
that? 

Artois  wondered  secretly,  and  was  not  sure.  He 
had  a  theory  that  all  women  like  to  feel  their  power  over 
men.  Few  men  have  not  this  theory.  But  there  was 
in  Vere  something  immensely  independent,  that  seemed 
without  sex,  and  that  hinted  at  a  reserve  not  vestal, 
but  very  pure — too  pure,  perhaps,  to  desire  an  empire 
which  is  founded  certainly  upon  desire. 

And  the  Marchesino  was  essentially  and  completely 
the  young  animal;  not  the  heavy,  sleek,  and  self -con- 
tented young  animal  that  the  northern  countries  breed, 
but  the  frolicsome,  playful,  fiery  young  animal  that  has 
been  many  times  warmed  by  the  sun. 

Hermione  felt  that  Artois'  mood  to-night  echoed  his 
mood  at  Frisio's,  and  suddenly  she  thought  once  more 
of  the  visitors'  book  and  of  what  he  had  written  there, 
surely  in  a  moment  of  almost  heated  impulse.  And  as 
she  thought  of  it  she  was  moved  to  speak  of  her  thought. 
She  had  so  many  secret  reserves  from  Emile  now  that 
this  one  she  could  dispense  with. 

"You  remember  that  night  when  I  met  you  on  the 
sea?"  she  said  to  him. 

He  looked  away  from  Vere  and  answered: 

"Yes.     What  about  it?" 

"When  I  was  at  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio  I  looked  again 
over  that  wonderful  visitors'  book." 

"Did  you?" 

"Yes.     And  I  saw  what  you  had  written." 

Their  eyes  met.  She  wondered  if  by  the  expression 
in  hers  he  divined  why  she  had  made  that  expedition, 
moved  by  what  expectation,  by  what  curiosity.  She 

43  <? 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

could  tell  nothing  by  his  face,  which  was  calm  and 
inscrutable. 

After  an  instant's  pause  he  said: 

"Do  you  know  from  whom  those  words  come?" 

"No.     Are  they  your  own?" 

"Victor  Hugo's.     Do  you  like  them?" 

But  her  eyes  were  asking  him  a  question,  and  he 
saw  it. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said. 

"Why  did  you  write  them?"  she  said. 

"I  had  to  write  something.     You  made  me." 

"Vere  suggested  it  first." 

He  looked  again  at  Vere,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
She  was  laughing  at  something  the  Marchesino  was 
saying. 

"Did  she  ? — Oh!  Take  some  of  that  salade  a  la  Russe. 
I  gave  the  chef  the  recipe  for  it. — Did  she?" 

"Don't  you  remember?" 

"Those  words  were  in  my  head.     I  put  them  down." 

"Are  you  fond  of  them?" 

Her  restless  curiosity  was  still  quite  unsatisfied. 

"I  don't  know.  But  one  has  puzzled  about  con- 
science. Hasn't  one?" 

He  glanced  at  the  Marchesino,  who  was  bending  for- 
ward to  Vere,  and  illustrating  something  he  was  telling 
her  by  curious  undulating  gestures  with  both  hands 
that  suggested  a  flight. 

"At  least  some  of  us  have,"  he  continued.  "And 
some  never  have,  and  never  will." 

Hermione  understood  the  comment  on  their  fellow- 
guest. 

"Do  you  think  that  saying  explains  it  satisfactorily?" 
she  said. 

"I  believe  sometimes  we  know  a  great  deal  more  than 
we  know  we  know,"  he  answered.  "That  sounds  like 
some  nonsense  game  with  words,  but  it's  the  best  way 

437 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

to  put  it.  Conscience  seems  to  speak  out  of  the  silence. 
But  there  may  be  some  one  in  the  prompter's  box — 
our  secret  knowledge." 

"But  is  it  knowledge  of  ourselves,  or  of  others?" 

"Which  do  you  think ?" 

"Of  ourselves,  I  suppose.  I  think  we  generally  know 
far  less  of  others  than  we  believe  ourselves  to  know." 

She  expressed  his  thought  of  her  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"Probably.  And  nevertheless  we  may  know  things 
of  them  that  we  are  not  aware  we  know — till  after  we 
have  instinctively  acted  on  our  knowledge." 

Their  eyes  met  again.  Hermione  felt  in  that  moment 
as  if  he  knew  why  she  had  given  Vere  the  permission  to 
read  his  books. 

But  still  she  did  not  know  whether  he  had  written 
that  sentence  in  the  book  at  Frisio's  carelessly,  or 
prompted  by  some  violent  impulse  to  express  a  secret 
thought  or  feeling  of  the  moment. 

"Things  good  or  evil?"  she  said,  slowly. 

"Perhaps  both." 

The  Marchesino  burst  into  a  laugh.  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  shaking  his  head,  and  holding  the  table  with 
his  two  hands.  His  white  teeth  gleamed. 

"What  is  the  joke?"  asked  Artois. 

Vere  turned  her  head. 

"Oh,  nothing.  It's  too  silly.  I  can't  imagine  why 
the  Marchesino  is  so  much  amused  by  it." 

Artois  felt  shut  out.  But  when  Vere  and  he  had 
laughed  over  the  tea-table  in  a  blessed  community  of 
happy  foolishness,  who  could  have  understood  their 
mirth  ?  He  remembered  how  he  had  pitied  the  imagined 
outsider. 

He  turned  again  to  Hermione,  but  such  conversation 
as  theirs,  and  indeed  all  serious  conversation,  now  seemed 
to  him  heavy,  portentous,  almost  ludicrous.  The  young 
alone  knew  how  to  deal  with  life,  chasing  it  as  a  child 

438 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

chases  a  colored  air-ball,  and  when  it  would  sink,  and 
fail  and  be  inert,  sending  it  with  a  gay  blow  soaring  once 
more  towards  the  blue. 

Perhaps  Hermione  had  a  similar  thought,  or  perhaps 
she  knew  of  it  in  him.  At  any  rate,  for  a  moment  she 
had  nothing  to  say.  Nor  had  he.  And  so,  tacitly  ex- 
cluded, as  it  seemed,  from  the  merriment  of  the  young 
ones,  the  two  elders  remained  looking  towards  each 
other  in  silence,  sunk  in  a  joint  exile. 

Presently  Artois  began  to  fidget  with  his  bread.  He 
pulled  out  some  of  the  crumb  from  his  roll,  and  pressed 
it  softly  between  his  large  fingers,  and  scattered  the  tiny 
fragments  mechanically  over  the  table-cloth  near  his  plate. 
Hermione  watched  his  moving  hand.  The  Marchesino 
was  talking  now.  He  was  telling  Vere  about  a  paper- 
chase  at  Capodimonte,  which  had  started  from  the  Royal 
Palace.  His  vivacity,  his  excitement  made  a  paper-chase 
seem  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  remarkable  events  in 
a  brilliant  and  remarkable  world.  He  had  been  the  hare. 
And  such  a  hare!  Since  hares  were  first  created  and 
placed  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  there  had  been  none  like 
unto  him.  He  told  of  his  cunning  exploits. 

The  fingers  of  Artois  moved  faster.  Hermione  glanced 
at  his  face.  Its  massiveness  looked  heavy.  The  large 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  table-cloth.  His  hand  just 
then  was  more  expressive.  And  as  she  glanced  at  it 
again  something  very  pitiful  awoke  in  her,  something 
pitiful  for  him  and  for  herself.  She  felt  that  very  often 
lately  she  had  misunderstood  him — she  had  been  con- 
fused about  him.  But  now,  in  this  moment,  she  under- 
stood him  perfectly. 

He  pulled  some  more  crumb  out  of  his  roll. 

She  was  fascinated  by  his  hand.  Much  as  it  had 
written,  it  had  never  written  more  clearly  on  paper  than 
it  was  writing  now. 

But  suddenly  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  look  at  it  any 
439 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

more,  as  if  it  was  intolerable  to  look  at  it.  And  she 
turned  towards  the  open  window. 

"What  is  it?"  Artois  asked  her.  "Is  there  too  much 
air  for  you?" 

"Oh  no.  It  isn't  that.  I  was  only  thinking  what  a 
quantity  of  people  pass  by,  and  wondering  where  they 
were  all  going,  and  what  they  were  all  thinking  and 
hoping.  I  don't  know  why  they  should  have  come  into 
my  head  just  then.  I  suppose  it  will  soon  be  time  for  us 
to  start  for  the  festa." 

"Yes.  We'll  have  coffee  in  my  sitting-room — when 
they  are  ready."  He  looked  again  at  Vere  and  the 
Marchesino. 

"Have  we  all  finished?  I  thought  we  would  go  and 
have  coffee  up-stairs.  What  do  you  say,  Vere?" 

He  spoke  cheerfully. 

"Yes;  do  let  us." 

They  all  got  up.  As  Hermione  and  Vere  moved 
towards  the  door  Artois  leaned  out  of  the  window  for  a 
moment. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid.  There  will  be  no  storm  to- 
night, Emilio!"  said  the  Marchesino,  gayly — almost 
satirically. 

"No — it's  quite  fine." 

Artois  drew  in.  "  We  ought  to  have  a  perfect  even- 
ing," he  added,  quietly. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

"How  are  we  going  to  drive  to  the  Carmine?"  said 
Artois  to  Hermione,  when  she  had  taken  her  cloak  and 
was  ready  to  go  down. 

"We  must  have  two  carriages." 

"Yes." 

"Vere  and  I  will  go  in  one,  with  Gaspare  on  the  box, 
and  you  and  the  Marchese  can  follow  in  the  other." 

"Signora,"  said  the  Marchesino,  drawing  on  his  white 
gloves,  "you  still  do  not  trust  us?  You  are  still  de- 
termined to  take  the  watch-dog?  It  is  cruel  of  you. 
It  shows  a  great  want  of  faith  in  Emilio  and  in  me." 

"Gaspare  must  come." 

The  Marchesino  said  no  more,  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  an  air  of  humorous  resignation  which 
hid  a  real  chagrin.  He  knew  how  watchful  a  Sicilian 
can  be,  how  unyielding  in  attention  to  his  mistresses, 
if  he  thinks  they  need  protection. 

But  perhaps  this  Gaspare  was  to  be  bribed. 

Instinctively  the  Marchesino  put  his  hand  into  his 
waistcoat- pocket,  and  began  to  feel  the  money  there. 

Yes,  there  was  a  gold  piece. 

"Come,  Panacci!" 

Emilio 's  hand  touched  his  shoulder,  and  he  followed 
the  ladies  out  of  the  room. 

Emilio  had  called  him  "Panacci."  That  sounded 
almost  like  a  declaration  of  war.  Well,  he  was  ready. 
At  dinner  his  had  been  the  triumph,  and  Emilio  knew  it. 
He  meant  his  triumph  to  be  a  greater  one  before  the 

441 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

evening  was  over.  The  reappearance  of  the  gay  child 
in  Vere,  grafted  upon  the  comprehending  woman  whom 
he  had  seen  looking  out  of  her  eyes  on  the  day  of  his  last 
visit  to  the  island,  had  put  the  finishing  touch  to  the 
amorous  madness  of  the  Marchesino.  He  deemed  Vere 
an  accomplished  coquette.  He  believed  that  her  cruelty 
on  the  night  of  his  serenade,  that  her  coldness  and 
avoidance  of  him  on  the  day  of  the  lunch,  were  means 
devised  to  increase  his  ardor.  She  had  been  using 
Emilio  merely  as  an  instrument.  He  had  been  a  weapon 
in  her  girlish  hands.  That  was  the  suitable  fate  of  the 
old — usefulness. 

The  Marchesino  was  in  a  fever  of  anticipation.  Possi- 
bly Vere  would  play  into  his  hands  when  they  got  to  the 
festa.  If  not,  he  must  manage  things  for  himself.  The 
Signora,  of  course,  would  make  Emilio  her  escort.  Vere 
would  naturally  fall  to  him,  the  Marchesino. 

But  there  was  the  fifth— this  Gaspare. 

When  they  came  out  to  the  pavement  the  Marchesino 
cast  a  searching  glance  at  the  Sicilian,  who  was  taking 
the  cloaks,  while  the  two  carriages  which  had  been 
summoned  by  the  hotel  porter  were  rattling  up  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way.  Gaspare  had  saluted  him,  but 
did  not  look  at  him  again.  When  Hermione  and  Vere 
were  in  the  first  carriage,  Gaspare  sprang  on  to  the  box 
as  a  matter  of  course.  The  Marchesino  went  to  tell  the 
coachman  which  way  to  drive  to  the  Carmine.  When  he 
had  finished  he  looked  at  Gaspare  and  said: 

"There  will  be  a  big  crowd.  Take  care  the  Signora 
does  not  get  hurt  in  it." 

He  laid  a  slight  emphasis  on  the  word  "Signora,"  and 
put  his  hand  significantly  into  his  waistcoat-pocket. 

Gaspare  regarded  him  calmly. 

"Va  bene,  Signer  Marchese,"  he  replied.  "I  will  take 
care  of  the  Signora  and  the  Signorina." 

The  Marchesino  turned  away  and  jumped  into  the 

442 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

second  carriage  with  Emilio,  realizing  angrily  that  his 
gold  piece  would  avail  him  nothing. 

As  they  drove  off  Artois  drew  out  some  small  square 
bits  of  paper. 

"Here's  your  ticket  for  the  enclosure,"  he  said,  giving 
one  to  the  Marchesino. 

"Grazie.  But  we  must  walk  about.  We  must  show 
the  ladies  the  fun  in  the  Mercato.  It  is  very  dull  to  stay 
all  the  evening  in  the  enclosure." 

"We  will  do  whatever  they  like,  of  course." 

"Keep  close  to  the  other  carriage!  Do  you  hear?" 
roared  the  Marchesino  to  the  coachman. 

The  man  jerked  his  head,  cracked  his  whip,  pulled 
at  his  horse's  mouth.  They  shot  forward  at  a  tre- 
mendous pace,  keeping  close  by  the  sea  at  first,  then 
turning  to  the  left  up  the  hill  towards  the  Piazza  del 
Plebiscito.  The  Marchesino  crossed  his  legs,  folded  his 
arms,  and  instinctively  assumed  the  devil-may-care  look 
characteristic  of  the  young  Neapolitan  when  driving 
through  his  city. 

"Emilio,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  looking  at  Artois 
out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  without  moving  his  head, 
"when  I  was  at  the  island  the  other  day,  do  you  know 
whom  I  saw  in  the  house?" 

"No." 

"A  girl  of  the  town.     A  bad  girl.     You  understand  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  a  girl  with  a  wounded  cheek?" 

"Yes.     How  can  the  Signora  have  her  there?" 

"The  Signora  knows  all  about  her,"  said  Artois, 
dryly. 

"She  thinks  so!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"If  the  Signora  really  knew,  could  she  take  such  a 
girl  to  live  with  the  Signorina?" 

The  conversation  was  rapidly  becoming  insupportable 
to  Artois. 

'<>  443 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"This  is  not  our  affair,"  he  said. 

"I  do  not  say  it  is.  But  still,  as  I  am  a  Neapolitan, 
I  think  it  a  pity  that  some  one  does  not  explain  to  the 
Signora  how  impossible — " 

"Caro  mio!"  Artois  exclaimed,  unable  to  endure  his 
companion's  obvious  inclination  to  pose  as  a  protector 
of  Vere's  innocence,  "English  ladies  do  not  care  to  be 
governed.  They  are  not  like  your  charming  women. 
They  are  independent  and  do  as  they  choose.  You  had 
much  better  not  bother  your  head  about  what  happens 
on  the  island.  Very  soon  the  Signora  may  be  leaving  it 
and  going  away  from  Naples." 

"Davvero?" 

The  Marchesino  turned  right  round  in  the  little  carriage, 
forgetting  his  pose. 

"Davvero?  No.  I  don't  believe  it.  You  play  with 
me.  You  wish  to  frighten  me." 

"To  frighten  you!  I  don't  understand  what  you 
mean.  What  can  it  matter  to  you?  You  scarcely 
know  these  ladies." 

The  Marchesino  pursed  his  lips  together.  But  he 
only  said,  "Si,  si."  He  did  not  mean  to  quarrel  with 
Emilio  yet.  To  do  so  might  complicate  matters  with 
the  ladies. 

As  they  entered  the  Via  del  Popolo,  and  drew  near 
to  the  Piazza,  di  Masaniello,  his  excitement  increased, 
stirred  by  the  sight  of  the  crowds  of  people,  who  were  all 
streaming  in  the  same  direction  past  the  iron  rails  of  the 
port,  beyond  which,  above  the  long  and  ghostly  sheds 
that  skirt  the  sea,  rose  the  tapering  masts  of  vessels  lying 
at  anchor.  Plans  buzzed  in  his  head.  He  called  upon 
all  his  shrewdness,  all  his  trickiness  of  the  South.  He 
had  little  doubt  of  his  capacity  to  out-manceuvre  Emilio 
and  the  Signora.  And  if  the  Signorina  were  favorable 
to  him,  he  believed  that  he  might  even  get  the  better  of 
Gaspare,  in  whom  he  divined  a  watchful  hostility.  But 

444 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

would  the  Signorina  help  him?  He  could  not  tell.  How 
can  one  ever  tell  what  a  girl  will  do  at  a  given  moment  ? 

With  a  jerk  the  carriage  drew  up  beneath  the  walls  of 
the  prison  that  frowns  upon  the  Piazza  di  Masaniello, 
and  the  Marchesino  roused  himself  to  the  battle  and 
sprang  out.  The  hum  of  the  great  crowd  already  as- 
sembled, the  brilliance  of  the  ilhiminations  that  lit  up 
the  houses,  Nuvolo's  tower,  the  facade  of  the  Church  of 
the  Carmine,  and  the  adjoining  monastery,  the  loud 
music  of  the  band  that  was  stationed  in  the  Kosk  before 
the  enclosure,  stirred  his  young  blood.  As  he  went 
quickly  to  help  Hermione  and  Vere,  he  shot  a  glance 
almost  of  contempt  at  the  gray  hairs  of  Emilio,  who  was 
getting  out  of  the  carriage  slowly.  Artois  saw  the  glance 
and  understood  it.  For  a  moment  he  stood  still.  Then 
he  paid  the  coachman  and  moved  on,  encompassed  by 
the  masses  of  people  who  were  struggling  gayly  towards 
the  centre  of  the  Square,  intent  upon  seeing  the  big  doll 
that  was  enthroned  there  dressed  as  Masaniello. 

"We  had  better  go  into  the  enclosure.  Don't  you 
think  so?"  he  said  to  Hermione. 

"If  you  like.     I  am  ready  for  anything." 

"We  can  walk  about  afterwards.  Perhaps  the  crush 
will  be  less  when  the  fire-balloon  has  gone  up." 

The  Marchesino  said  nothing,  and  they  gained  the 
enclosure,  where  rows  of  little  chairs  stood  on  the  short 
grass  that  edges  the  side  of  the  prison  that  looks  upon 
the  Piazza.  Gaspare,  who  on  such  occasions  was  full 
of  energy  and  singularly  adroit,  found  them  good  places 
in  a  moment. 

"Ecco,  Signora!     Ecco,  Signorina!" 

"Madre,  may  I  stand  on  my  chair?" 

"Of  course,  Signorina.     Look!     Others  are  standing!" 

Gaspare  helped  his  Padroncina  up,  then  took  his  place 
beside  her,  and  stood  like  a  sentinel.  Artois  had  never 
liked  him  better  than  at  that  moment.  Hermione,  who 

445; 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

looked  rather  tired,  sat  down  on  her  chair.  The  loud 
music  of  the  band,  the  lines  of  fire  that  brought  the  dis- 
colored houses  into  sharp  relief,  and  that  showed  her 
with  a  distinctness  that  was  fanciful  and  lurid  the 
moving  faces  of  hundreds  of  strangers,  the  dull  roar  of 
voices,  and  the  heat  that  flowed  from  the  human  bodies, 
seemed  to  mingle,  to  become  concrete,  to  lie  upon  her 
spirit  like  a  weight.  Artois  stood  by  her,  leaning  on  his 
stick  and  watching  the  crowd  with  his  steady  eyes.  The 
Marchesino  was  looking  up  at  Vere,  standing  in  a  position 
that  seemed  to  indicate  a  longing  that  she  should  rest 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"You  will  fall,  Signorina!"  he  said.  "Be  careful. 
Let  me — " 

"I  am  quite  safe." 

But  she  dropped  one  hand  to  the  shoulder  of  Gaspare. 

The  Marchesino  moved,  almost  as  if  he  were  about  to 
go  away.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette  and  spoke  to  Her- 
mione. 

"You  look  tired,  Signora.  You  feel  the  heat.  It  is 
much  fresher  outside,  when  one  is  walking.  Here,  under 
the  prison  walls,  it  is  always  like  a  furnace  in  summer. 
It  is  unwholesome.  It  puts  one  into  a  fever." 

Hermione  looked  at  him,  and  saw  a  red  spot  burning 
on  each  side  of  his  face  near  his  cheek-bones. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  walk,"  she  said, 
doubtfully. 

Her  inclination  was  for  movement,  for  her  fatigue  was 
combined  with  a  sensation  of  great  restlessness. 

"What  do  you  say,  Vere?"  she  added. 

"Oh,  I  should  love  to  go  among  the  people  and  see 
everything,"  she  answered,  eagerly. 

The  Marchesino's  brow  cleared. 

"Let  us  go,  Emilio!  You  hear  what  the  Signorina 
says." 

"Very  well,"  said  Artois. 

446 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

His  voice  was  reluctant,  even  cold.  Vere  glanced  at 
him  quickly. 

"Would  you  rather  stay  here,  Monsieur  Emile?"  she 
said. 

"No,  Vere,  no.     Let  us  go  and  see  the  fun." 

He  smiled  at  her. 

"We  must  keep  close  together,"  he  added,  looking  at 
the  Marchesino.  "The  crowd  is  tremendous." 

"But  they  are  all  in  good  humor,"  he  answered,  care- 
lessly. "We  Neapolitans,  we  are  very  gay,  that  is  true, 
but  we  do  not  forget  our  manners  when  we  have  a  festa. 
There  is  nothing  to  fear.  This  is  the  best  way  out.  We 
must  cross  the  Mercato.  The  illuminations  of  the  streets 
beyond  are  always  magnificent.  The  Signorina  shall 
walk  down  paths  of  fire,  but  she  shall  not  be  burned." 

He  led  the  way  with  Vere,  going  in  front  to  disarm 
the  suspicion  which  he  saw  plainly  lurking  in  Emilio's 
eyes.  Artois  followed  with  Hermione,  and  Gaspare  came 
last.  The  exit  from  the  enclosure  was  difficult,  as  many 
people  were  pouring  in  through  the  narrow  opening,  and 
others,  massed  together  outside  the  wooden  barrier, 
were  gazing  at  the  seated  women  within ;  but  at  length 
they  reached  the  end  of  the  Piazza,  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  Masaniello  doll,  which  faced  a  portrait  of  the 
Madonna  del  Carmine  framed  in  fire.  Beyond,  to  the 
right,  above  the  heads  of  the  excited  multitude,  rose  the 
pale-pink  globe  of  the  fire-balloon,  and  as  for  a  moment 
they  stood  still  to  look  at  it  the  band  struck  up  a  so- 
norous march,  the  balloon  moved  sideways,  swayed, 
heeled  over  slightly  like  a  sailing  -  yacht  catching  the 
breeze  beyond  the  harbor  bar,  recovered  itself,  and  lifted 
its  blazing  car  above  the  gesticulating  arms  of  the 
people.  A  long  murmur  followed  it  as  it  glided  gently 
away,  skirting  the  prodigious  belfry  with  the  apparent 
precaution  of  a  living  thing  that  longed  for,  and  sought, 
the  dim  freedom  of  the  sky.  The  children  instinctively 

447 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

stretched  out  their  arms  to  it.  All  faces  were  lifted 
towards  the  stars,  as  if  a  common  aspiration  at  that 
moment  infected  the  throng,  a  universal,  though  passing 
desire  to  be  free  of  the  earth,  to  mount,  to  travel,  to  be 
lost  in  the  great  spaces  that  encircle  terrestrial  things. 
At  the  doors  of  the  trattorie  the  people,  who  had  for- 
saken their  snails,  stood  to  gaze,  many  of  them  holding 
glasses  of  white  wine  in  their  hands.  The  spighe  arrosto, 
the  watermelons,  were  for  a  moment  forgotten  on  the 
stalls  of  their  vendors,  who  ceased  from  shouting  to  the 
passers-by.  There  was  a  silence  in  which  was  almost 
audible  the  human  wish  for  wings.  Presently  the 
balloon,  caught  by  some  vagrant  current  of  air,  began 
to  travel  abruptly,  and  more  swiftly,  sideways,  passing 
over  the  city  towards  its  centre.  At  once  the  crowd 
moved  in  the  same  direction.  Aspiration  was  gone. 
A  violence  of  children  took  its  place,  and  the  instinct  to 
follow  where  the  blazing  toy  led.  The  silence  was 
broken.  People  called  and  gesticulated,  laughed  and 
chattered.  Then  the  balloon  caught  fire  from  the 
brazier  beneath  it.  A  mass  of  flames  shot  up.  A  roar 
broke  from  the  crowd  and  it  pressed  more  fiercely  on- 
ward, each  unit  of  it  longing  to  see  where  the  wreck 
would  fall.  Already  the  flames  were  sinking  towards 
the  city. 

"Where  are  Vere  and  the  Marchesino?" 

Hermione  had  spoken.  Artois,  whose  imagination 
had  been  fascinated  by  the  instincts  of  the  crowd,  and 
whose  intellect  had  been  chained  to  watchfulness  during 
its  strange  excitement,  looked  sharply  round. 

"Vere — isn't  she  here?" 

He  saw  at  once  that  she  was  gone.  But  he  saw,  too, 
that  Gaspare  was  no  longer  with  them.  The  watch- 
dog had  been  more  faithful  than  he. 

"They  must  be  close  by,"  he  added.  "The  sudden 
movement  separated  us,  no  doubt." 

448 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Yes.     Gaspare  has  vanished  too!" 

"With  them,"  Artois  said. 

He  spoke  with  an  emphasis  that  was  almost  violent. 

"But — you  didn't  see — •"  began  Hermione. 

"Don't  you  know  Gaspare  yet?"  he  asked. 

Their  eyes  met.  She  was  startled  by  the  expression 
in  his. 

"You  don't  think — "  she  began. 

She  broke  off. 

"I  think  Gaspare  knows  his  Southerner,"  Artois 
replied.  "We  must  look  for  them.  They  are  certain 
to  have  gone  with  the  crowd." 

They  followed  the  people  into  the  Mercato.  The 
burning  balloon  dropped  down  and  disappeared. 

"It  had  fallen  into  the  Rettifilo!"  cried  a  young  man 
close  to  them. 

"Macche!"  exclaimed  his  companion. 

"I  will  bet  you  five  lire — " 

He  gesticulated  furiously. 

"We  shall  never  find  them,"  Hermione  said. 

"We  will  try  to  find  them." 

His  voice  startled  her  now,  as  his  eyes  had  startled 
her.  A  man  in  the  crowd  pressed  against  her  roughly. 
Instinctively  she  caught  hold  of  Artois'  arm. 

"Yes,  you  had  better  take  it,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  it  was  only — " 

"No,  take  it." 

And  he  drew  her  hand  under  his  arm. 

The  number  of  people  in  the  Mercato  was  immense, 
but  it  was  possible  to  walk  on  steadily,  though  slowly. 
Now  that  the  balloon  had  vanished  the  crowd  had  for- 
gotten it,  and  was  devoting  itself  eagerly  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  fair.  In  the  tall  and  barrack-like  houses  candles 
gleamed  in  honor  of  Masaniello.  The  streets  that  led 
away  towards  the  city's  heart  were  decorated  with 
arches  of  little  lamps,  with  columns  and  chains  of  lights, 

449 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  the  pedestrians  passing  through  them  looked 
strangely  black  in  this  great  frame  of  fire.  From  the 
Piazza,  before  the  Carmine  the  first  rocket  rose,  and, 
exploding,  showered  its  golden  rain  upon  the  picture  of 
the  Virgin. 

"Perhaps  they  have  gone  back  into  the  Piazza." 

Hermione  spoke  after  a  long  silence,  during  which 
they  had  searched  in  vain.  Artois  stood  still  and  looked 
down  at  her.  His  face  was  very  stern. 

"We  sha'n't  find  them,"  he  said. 

"In  this  crowd,  of  course,  it  is  difficult,  but — " 

"We  sha'n't  find  them." 

"At  any  rate,  Gaspare  is  with  them." 

"How  do  we  know  that?" 

The  expression  in  his  face  frightened  her. 

"But  you  said  you  were  sure — •" 

"Panacci  was  too  clever  for  us;  he  may  have  been  too 
clever  for  Gaspare." 

Hermione  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said: 

"You  surely  don't  think  the  Marchese  is  wicked?" 

"He  is  young,  he  is  Neapolitan,  and  to-night  he  is 
mad.  Vere  has  made  him  mad." 

"But  Vere  was  only  gay  at  dinner  as  any  child — " 

"Don't  think  I  am  blaming  Vere.  If  she  has  fascina- 
tion, she  cannot  help  it." 

"What  shall  we  do?" 

"Will  you  let  me  put  you  into  a  cab?  Will  you  wait 
in  my  room  at  the  hotel  until  I  come  back  with  Vere  ? 
I  can  search  for  her  better  alone.  I  will  find  her — -if  she 
is  here." 

Their  eyes  met  steadily  as  he  finished  speaking,  and  he 
saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  in  hers  a  creeping  menace,  as 
if  she  had  the  intention  to  attack  or  to  defy  him. 

"I  am  Vere's  mother,"  she  said. 

"Let  me  take  you  to  a  cab,  Hermione." 

He  spoke  coldly,  inexorably.     This  moment  of  en- 

45° 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

forced  inactivity  was  a  very  difficult  one  for  him.  And 
the  violence  that  was  blazing  within  him  made  him  fear 
that  if  Hermione  did  not  yield  to  his  wish  he  might  lose 
his  self-control. 

"You  can  do  nothing,"  he  added. 

Her  eyes  left  his,  her  lips  quivered.     Then  she  said: 

"Take  me,  then." 

She  did  not  look  at  him  again  until  she  was  in  a  cab 
and  Artois  had  told  the  driver  to  go  to  the  Hdtel  Royal. 
Then  she  glanced  at  him  with  a  strange  expression  of 
acute  self -consciousness  which  he  had  never  before  seen 
on  her  face. 

"You  don't  believe  that — that  there  is  any  danger  to 
Vere?"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "You  cannot  believe 
that." 

"I  don't  know." 

She  leaned  forward,  and  her  face  changed. 

"Go  and  bring  her  back  to  me." 

The  cabman  drove  off,  and  Artois  was  lost  in  the 
crowd. 

He  never  knew  how  long  his  search  lasted,  how  long 
he  heard  the  swish  and  the  bang  of  rockets,  the  vehement 
music  of  the  band,  the  cries  and  laughter  of  the  people, 
the  sound  of  footsteps  as  if  a  world  were  starting  on  some 
pilgrimage;  how  long  he  saw  the  dazzling  avenues  of 
fire  stretching  away  into  the  city's  heart;  how  long  he 
looked  at  the  faces  of  strangers,  seeking  Vere's  face. 
He  was  excessively  conscious  of  almost  everything  except 
of  time.  It  might  have  been  two  hours  later,  or  much 
less,  when  he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  turned  round, 
and  saw  Gaspare  beside  him. 

"Whe>re  is  the  Signora?" 

"Gone  to  the  hotel.     And  the  Signorina?" 

Gaspare  looked  at  Artois  with  a  sort  of  heavy  gloom, 
then  looked  down  to  the  ground. 

"You  have  lost  her?" 

451 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"Si." 

There  was  a  dulness  of  fatalism  in  his  voice. 

Artois  did  not  reproach  him. 

"Did  you  lose  them  when  the  balloon  went  up?"  he 
asked. 

"Macche!  It  was  not  the  balloon!"  Gaspare  said, 
fiercely. 

"What  was  it?" 

Artois  felt  suddenly  that  Gaspare  had  some  perfect 
excuse  for  his  inattention. 

"Some  one  spoke  to  me.  When  I — when  I  had 
finished  the  Signorina  and  that  Signore  were  gone." 

"Some  one  spoke  to  you.     Who  was  it?" 

"It  was  Ruffo." 

Artois  stared  at  Gaspare. 

"Ruffo!     Was  he  alone?" 

"No,  Signore." 

"Who  was  with  him?" 

"His  mother  was  with  him." 

"His  mother.     Did  you  speak  to  her?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

There  was  a  silence  between  them.  It  was  broken  by 
a  sound  of  bells. 

"Signore,  it  is  midnight." 

Artois  drew  out  his  watch  quickly.  The  hands  point- 
ed to  twelve  o'clock.  The  crowd  was  growing  thinner, 
was  surely  melting  away. 

"We  had  better  go  to  the  hotel,"  Artois  said.  "Per- 
haps they  are  there.  If  they  are  not  there — 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  They  found  a  cab 
and  drove  swiftly  towards  the  Marina.  All  the  time  the 
little  carriage  rattled  over  the  stony  streets  Artois  ex- 
pected Gaspare  to  speak  to  him,  to  tell  him  more,  to 
tell  him  something  tremendous.  He  felt  as  if  the  Sicilian 
were  beset  by  an  imperious  need  to  break  a  long  reserve. 
But,  if  it  were  so,  this  reserve  was  too  strong  for  its 

452 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

enemy.     Gaspare's  lips  were  closed.     He  did  not  say  a 
word  till  the  cabman  drew  up  before  the  hotel. 

As  Artois  got  out  he  knew  that  he  was  terribly  ex- 
cited. The  hall  was  almost  dark,  and  the  night  con- 
cierge came  from  his  little  room  on  the  right  of  the 
door  to  turn  on  the  light  and  accompany  Artois  to  the 
lift. 

"There  is  a  lady  waiting  in  your  room,  Signore,"  he 
said. 

Artois,  who  was  walking  quickly  towards  the  lift, 
stopped.  He  looked  at  Gaspare. 

"A  lady!"  he  said. 

"Shall  I  go  back  to  the  Piazza,,  Signore?" 

He  half  turned  towards  the  swing  door. 

"Wait  a  minute.  Come  up-stairs  first  and  see  the 
Signora." 

The  lift  ascended.  As  Artois  opened  the  door  of  his 
sitting-room  he  heard  a  woman's  dress  rustle,  and 
Hermione  stood  before  them. 

"Vere?"  she  said. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Gaspare!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  reproach  in  her  voice.  She 
took  her  hand  away  from  Artois. 

"Gaspare?"  she  repeated,  interrogatively. 

"Signora!"  he  answered,  doggedly. 

He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"You  have  lost  the  Signorina?" 

"Si,  Signora." 

He  attempted  no  excuse,  he  expressed  no  regret. 

"Gaspare!"  Hermione  said. 

Suddenly  Artois  put  his  hand  on  Gaspare's  shoulder. 
He  said  nothing,  but  his  touch  told  the  Sicilian  much — 
told  him  how  he  was  understood,  how  he  was  respected, 
by  this  man  who  had  shared  his  silence. 

"We  thought  they  might  be  here,"  Artois  said. 
453 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"They  are  not  here." 

Her  voice  was  almost  hard,  almost  rebuking.  She 
was  still  standing  in  the  door-space. 

"I  will  go  back  and  look  again,  Signora." 

"SI,"  she  said. 

She  turned  back  into  the  room.  Artois  held  out  his 
hand  to  Gaspare: 

"Signore?" 

Gaspare  looked  surprised,  hesitating,  then  moved. 
He  took  the  out-stretched  hand,  grasped  it  violently, 
and  went  away. 

Artois  shut  the  sitting-room  door  and  went  towards 
Hermione. 

"You  are  staying?"  she  said. 

By  her  intonation  he  could  not  tell  whether  she  was 
glad  or  almost  angrily  astonished. 

"They  may  come  here  immediately,"  he  said.  "I 
wish  to  see  Panacci — when  he  comes." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly. 

"  It  must  be  an  accident,"  she  said.  "  I  can't — I  won't 
believe  that — no  one  could  hurt  Vere." 

He  said  nothing. 

"No  one  could  hurt  Vere,"  she  repeated. 

He  went  out  on  to  the  balcony  and  stood  there  for 
two  or  three  minutes,  looking  down  at  the  sea  and  at  the 
empty  road.  She  did  not  follow  him,  but  sat  down  upon 
the  sofa  near  the  writing-table.  Presently  he  turned 
round. 

"Gaspare  has  gone." 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  never  come!" 

"Hermione,"  he  said,  "has  it  come  to  this,  that  I 
must  defend  Gaspare  to  you?" 

"I  think  Gaspare  might  have  kept  with  Vere,  ought  to 
have  kept  with  Vere." 

Artois  felt  a  burning  desire  to  make  Hermione  under- 
stand the  Sicilian,  but  he  only  said,  gently: 

454 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Some  day,  perhaps,  you  will  know  Gaspare's  charac- 
ter better,  you  will  understand  all  this." 

"I  can't  understand  it  now.  But — oh,  if  Vere —  No, 
that's  impossible,  impossible!" 

She  spoke  with  intense  vehemence. 

"Some  things  cannot  happen,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
force  that  seemed  to  be  commanding  destiny. 

Artois  said  nothing.  And  his  apparent  calm  seemed 
to  punish  her,  almost  as  if  he  struck  her  with  a  whip. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  she  said. 

She  felt  almost  confused  by  his  silence. 

He  went  out  again  to  the  balcony,  leaned  on  the 
railing  and  looked  over.  She  felt  that  he  was  listening 
with  his  whole  nature  for  the  sound  of  wheels.  She  felt 
that  she  heard  him  listening,  that  she  heard  him  de- 
manding the  sound.  And  as  she  looked  at  his  dark 
figure,  beyond  which  she  saw  the  vagueness  of  night 
and  some  stars,  she  was  conscious  of  the  life  in  him  as  she 
had  never  been  conscious  of  it  before,  she  was  conscious 
of  all  his  manhood  terribly  awake. 

That  was  for  Vere. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by.  Artois  remained  al- 
ways on  the  balcony,  and  scarcely  moved.  Hermione 
watched  him,  and  tried  to  learn  a  lesson;  tried  to  realize 
without  bitterness  and  horror  that  in  the  heart  of  man 
everything  has  been  planted,  and  that  therefore  nothing 
which  grows  there  should  cause  too  great  amazement, 
too  great  condemnation,  or  the  absolute  withdrawal  of 
pity;  tried  to  face  someth'ng  which  must  completely 
change  her  life,  sweeping  away  more  than  mere  illu- 
sions, sweeping  away  a  long  reverence  which  had  been 
well  founded,  and  which  she  had  kept  very  secret  in  her 
heart,  replacing  its  vital  substance  with  a  pale  shadow 
of  compassion. 

She  watched  him,  and  she  listened  for  the  sound  of 
wheels,  until  at  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

455 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Emile,  what  are  we  to  do?  What  can  we  do?"  she 
said,  desperately. 

"Hush! "he  said. 

He  held  up  his  hand.  They  both  listened  and  heard 
far  off  the  noise  of  a  carriage  rapidly  approaching.  He 
looked  over  into  the  road.  The  carriage  rattled  up. 
She  heard  it  stop,  and  saw  him  bend  down.  Then  sud- 
denly he  drew  himself  up,  turned,  and  came  into  the 
room. 

"They  have  come,"  he  said. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and  stood  by  it. 

And  his  face  was  terrible. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

Two  minutes  later  there  was  the  sound  of  steps  coming 
quickly  down  the  uncarpeted  corridor,  and  Vere  entered, 
followed,  but  not  closely,  by  the  Marchesino.  Vere  went 
up  at  once  to  her  mother,  without  even  glancing  at 
Artois. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  Madre,"  she  said,  quietly.  "But — • 
but  it  was  not  my  fault." 

The  Marchesino  had  paused  near  the  door,  as  if  doubt- 
ful of  Vere's  intentions.  Now  he  approached  Hermione, 
pulling  off  his  white  gloves. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  in  a  hard  and  steady  voice,  but 
smiling  boyishly,  "I  fear  I  am  the  guilty  one.  When 
the  balloon  went  up  we  were  separated  from  you  by  the 
crowd,  and  could  not  find  you  again  immediately.  The 
Signorina  wished  to  go  back  to  the  enclosure.  Unfort- 
unately I  had  lost  the  tickets,  so  that  we  should  not  have 
been  readmitted.  Under  these  circumstances  I  thought 
the  best  thing  was  to  show  the  Signorina  the  illumina- 
tions, and  then  to  come  straight  back  to  the  hotel.  I 
hope  you  have  not  been  distressed.  The  Signorina  was 
of  course  perfectly  safe  with  me." 

"Thank  you,  Marchese,"  said  Hermione,  coldly. 
"Emile,  what  are  we  to  do  about  Gaspare?" 

"Gaspare?"  asked  Vere. 

"He  has  gone  back  to  the  Piazza,  to  searcn  for  you 
again." 

"Oh!" 

She  flushed,  turned  away,  and  went  up  to  the  window. 
457 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

There  she  hesitated,  and  finally  stepped  out  on  to  the 
balcony. 

"You  had  better  spend  the  night  in  the  hotel,"  said 
Artois. 

"But  we  have  nothing!" 

"The  housemaid  can  find  you  what  is  necessary  in  the 
morning." 

"As  to  our  clothes — that  doesn't  matter.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  the  best  plan." 

Artois  rang  the  bell.  They  waited  in  silence  till  the 
night  porter  came. 

"Can  you  give  these  two  ladies  rooms  for  the  night?" 
said  Artois.  "It  is  too  late  for  them  to  go  home  by 
boat,  and  their  servant  has  not  come  back  yet." 

"Yes,  sir.     The  ladies  can  have  two  very  good  rooms." 

"Good-night,  Emile,"  said  Hermione.  "Good-night, 
Marchese.  Vere!" 

Vere  came  in  from  the  balcony. 

"We  are  going  to  sleep  here,  Vere.     Come!" 

She  went  out. 

"Good-night,  Monsieur  Emile,"  Vere  said  to  Artois, 
without  looking  at  him. 

She  followed  her  mother  without  saying  another 
word. 

Artois  looked  after  them  as  they  went  down  the 
corridor,  watched  Vere's  thin  and  girlish  figure  until  she 
turned  the  corner  near  the  staircase,  walking  slowly 
and,  he  thought,  as  if  she  were  tired  and  depressed. 
During  this  moment  he  was  trying  to  get  hold  of  his  own 
violence,  to  make  sure  of  his  self-control.  When  the 
sound  of  the  footsteps  had  died  completely  away  he 
drew  back  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door. 

The  Marchesino  was  standing  near  the  window.  When 
he  saw  the  face  of  Artois  he  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  and 
put  his  hat  on  the  floor. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  stay  for  a  few  minutes,  Emilio?" 
458 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

he  said.     "Have  you  anything  to  drink?     I  am  thirsty 
after  all  this  walking  in  the  crowd." 

Artois  brought  him  some  Nocera  and  lemons. 

"Do  you  want  brandy,  whiskey?" 

"No,  no.     Grazie." 

He  poured  out  the  Nocera  gently,  and  began  carefully 
to  squeeze  some  lemon -juice  into  it,  holding  the  fruit 
lightly  in  his  strong  fingers,  and  watching  the  drops  fall 
with  a  quiet  attention. 

"Where  have  you  been  to-night?" 

The  Marchesino  looked  up. 

"In  the  Piazza  di  Masaniello." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"  I  tell  you — the  Piazza,  the  Mercato,  down  one  or  two 
streets  to  see  the  illuminations.  What's  the  matter, 
caro  mio?  Are  you  angry  because  we  lost  you  in  the 
crowd?" 

"You  intended  to  lose  us  in  the  crowd  before  we  left 
the  hotel  to-night." 

" Not  at  all,  amico  mio.     Not  at  all." 

His  voice  hardened  again,  the  furrows  appeared  on  his 
forehead. 

"Now  you  are  lying,"  said  Artois. 

The  Marchesino  got  up  and  stood  in  front  of  Artois. 
The  ugly,  cat-like  look  had  come  into  his  face,  changing 
it  from  its  usual  boyish  impudence  to  a  hardness  that 
suggested  age.  At  that  moment  he  looked  much  older 
than  he  was. 

"Be  careful,  Emilio!"  he  said.  "I  am  Neapolitan, 
and  I  do  not  allow  myself  to  be  insulted." 

His  gray  eyes  contracted. 

"You  did  not  mean  to  get  lost  with  the  Signorina?" 
said  Artois. 

"One  leaves  such  things  to  destiny." 

"Destiny!     Well,  to-night  it  is  your  destiny  to  go  out 
of  the  Signorina 's  life  forever." 
3o  459 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"How  dare  you  command  me?  How  dare  you  speak 
for  these  ladies?" 

Suddenly  Artois  went  quite  white,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  Marchesino's  arm. 

' '  Where  have  you  been  ?  What  have  you  been  doing 
all  this  time?"  he  said. 

Questions  blazed  in  his  eyes.  His  hand  closed  more 
firmly  on  the  Marchesino. 

"Where  did  you  take  that  child?  What  did  you  say 
to  her?  What  did  you  dare  to  say?" 

"I!     And  you?"  said  the  Marchesino,  sharply. 

He  threw  out  his  hand  towards  the  face  of  Artois. 
"And  you — you!"  he  repeated. 

"I?" 

"Yes — you!  What  have  you  said  to  her?  Where 
have  you  taken  her?  I  at  least  am  young.  My  blood 
speaks  to  me.  I  am  natural,  I  am  passionate.  I  know 
what  I  am,  what  I  want;  I  show  it;  I  say  it;  I  am 
sincere.  I — I  am  ready  to  go  naked  into  the  sun  before 
the  whole  world,  and  say,  'There!  There!  This  is 
Isidoro  Panacci;  and  he  is  this — and  this — and  this! 
Like  it  or  hate  it — that  does  not  matter!  It  is  not  his 
fault.  He  is  like  that.  He  is  made  like  that.  He  is 
meant  to  be  like  that,  and  he  is  that — he  is  that!'  Do 
you  hear?  That  is  what  I  am  ready  to  do.  But  you — • 
you — !  Ah,  Madonna!  Ah,  Madre  benedetta!" 

He  threw  up  both  his  hands  suddenly,  looked  at  the 
ceiling  and  shook  his  head  sharply  from  side  to  side. 
Then  he  slapped  his  hands  gently  and  repeatedly  against 
his  knees,  and  a  prim  and  almost  venerable  look  came 
into  his  mobile  face. 

"The  great  worker!  The  man  of  intellect!  The  man 
who  is  above  the  follies  of  that  little  Isidoro  Panacci,  who 
loves  a  beautiful  girl,  and  who  is  proud  of  loving  her, 
and  who  shows  that  he  loves  her,  that  he  wants  her,  that 
he  wishes  to  take  her!  Stand  still! " — he  suddenly  hissed 

460 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

out  the  words.  "The  man  with  the  white  hairs  who 
might  have  had  many  children  of  his  own,  but  who  pre- 
fers to  play  papa — caro  papa,  Babbo  bello! — to  the  child 
of  another  on  a  certain  little  island.  Ah,  buon  Dio! 
The  wonderful  writer,  respected  and  admired  by  all; 
by  whose  side  the  little  Isidore  seems  only  a  small  boy 
from  college,  about  whom  nobody  need  bother!  How 
he  is  loved,  and  how  he  is  trusted  on  the  island!  No- 
body must  come  there  but  he  and  those  whom  he  wishes. 
He  is  to  order,  to  arrange  all.  The  little  Isidore — he 
must  not  come  there.  He  must  not  know  the  ladies. 
He  is  nothing;  but  he  is  wicked.  He  loves  pleasure. 
He  loves  beautiful  girls!  Wicked,  wicked  Isidore ! 
Keep  him  out!  Keep  him  away!  But  the  great  writer 
— with  the  white  hairs — everything  is  allowed  to  him 
because  he  is  Caro  Papa.  He  may  teach  the  Signorina. 
He  may  be  alone  with  her.  He  may  take  her  out  at 
night  in  the  boat." — His  cheeks  were  stained  with  red 
and  his  eyes  glittered. — "And  when  the  voice  of  that 
wicked  little  Isidore  is  heard —  Quick!  quick!  To  the 
cave!  Let  us  escape!  Let  us  hide  where  it  is  dark,  and 
he  will  never  find  us!  Let  us  make  him  think  we  are  at 
Nisida!  Hush!  the  boat  is  passing.  He  is  deceived! 
He  will  search  all  night  till  he  is  tired!  Ah — ah — ah! 
That  is  good!  And  now  back  to  the  island — quick! — 
before  he  finds  out!" — He  thrust  out  his  arm  towards 
Artois. — "And  that  is  my  friend!"  he  exclaimed.  "He 
who  calls  himself  the  friend  of  the  little  wicked  Isidore. 
P — f !" — He  turned  his  head  and  spat  on  to  the  balcony. 
— "Gran  Dio !  And  this  white-haired  Babbo !  He  steals 
into  the  Galleria  at  night  to  meet  Maria  Fortunata!  He 
puts  a  girl  of  the  town  to  live  with  the  Signorina  upon 
the  island,  to  teach  her — " 

"Stop!"  said  Artois. 

"I   will   not   stop!"  said   the   Marchesino,  furiously. 
"To  teach  the  Signorina  all  the — •" 

461 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Artois  lifted  his  hand. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  strike  you  on  the  mouth?"  he 
said. 

"Strike  me!" 

Artois  looked  at  him  with  a  steadiness  that  seemed  to 
pierce. 

"Then — take  care,  Panacci.  You  are  losing  your 
head." 

"And  you  have  lost  yours!"  cried  the  Marchesino. 
"You,  with  your  white  hairs,  you  are  mad.  You  are 
mad  about  the  'child.'  You  play  papa,  and  all  the 
time  you  are  mad,  and  you  think  nobody  sees  it.  But 
every  one  sees  it,  every  one  knows  it.  Every  one  knows 
that  you  are  madly  in  love  with  the  Signorina." 

Artois  had  stepped  back. 

"I — in  love!"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  contemptuous,  but  his  face  had  become 
flushed,  and  his  hands  suddenly  clinched  themselves. 

"What!  you  play  the  hypocrite  even  with  yourself! 
Ah,  we  Neapolitans,  we  may  be  shocking;  but  at  least 
we  are  sincere!  You  do  not  know? — then  I  will  tell  you. 
You  love  the  Signorina  madly,  and  you  hate  me  because 
you  are  jealous  of  me — -because  I  am  young  and  you  are 
old.  I  know  it;  the  Signora  knows  it;  that  Sicilian — 
Gaspare — he  knows  it!  And  now  you — you  know  it!" 

He  suddenly  flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa  that  was 
behind  him.  Perspiration  was  running  down  his  face, 
and  even  his  hands  were  wet  with  it. 

Artois  said  nothing,  but  stood  where  he  was,  looking 
at  the  Marchesino,  as  if  he  were  waiting  for  something 
more  which  must  inevitably  come.  The  Marchesino 
took  out  his  handkerchief,  passed  it  several  times  quickly 
over  his  lips,  then  rolled  it  up  into  a  ball  and  shut  it  up 
in  his  left  hand. 

"I  am  young  and  you  are  old,"  he  said.  "And  that 
is  all  the  matter.  You  hate  me,  not  because  you  think 

462 


I  am  wicked  and  might  do  the  Signorina  harm,  but 
because  I  am  young.  You  try  to  keep  the  Signorina 
from  me  because  I  am  young.  You  do  not  dare  to  let 
her  know  what  youth  is,  really,  really  to  know,  really, 
really  to  feel.  Because,  if  once  she  did  know,  if  once  she 
did  feel,  if  she  touched  the  fire" — he  struck  his  hand 
down  on  his  breast — "she  would  be  carried  away,  she 
would  be  gone  from  you  forever.  You  think,  'Now 
she  looks  up  to  me!  She  reverences  me!  She  admires 
me!  She  worships  me  as  a  great  man!'  And  if  once, 
only  once  she  touched  the  fire — ah!" — he  flung  out  both 
his  arms  with  a  wide  gesture,  opened  his  mouth,  then 
shut  it,  showing  his  teeth  like  an  animal. — "Away  would 
go  everything — everything.  She  would  forget  your 
talent,  she  would  forget  your  fame,  she  would  forget 
your  thoughts,  your  books,  she  would  forget  you,  do  you 
hear? — all,  all  of  you.  She  would  remember  only  that 
you  are  old  and  she  is  young,  and  that,  because  of  that, 
she  is  not  for  you.  And  then" — his  voice  dropped,  be- 
came cold  and  serious  and  deadly,  like  the  voice  of  one 
proclaiming  a  stark  truth — "and  then,  if  she  under- 
stood you,  what  you  feel,  and  what  you  wish,  and  how 
you  think  of  her — she  would  hate  you!  How  she  would 
hate  you!" 

He  stopped  abruptly,  staring  at  Artois,  who  said 
nothing. 

"Is  it  not  true?"  he  said. 

He  got  up,  taking  his  hat  and  stick  from  the  floor. 

"You  do  not  know!  Well — think!  And  you  will 
know  that  it  is  true.  A  rivederci,  Emilio!" 

His  manner  had  suddenly  become  almost  calm.  He 
turned  away  and  went  towards  the  door.  When  he 
reached  it  he  added: 

"To-morrow  I  shall  ask  the  Signora  to  allow  me  to 
marry  the  Signorina." 

Then  he  went  out. 

463 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  gilt  clock  on  the  marble  table  beneath  the  mirror 
struck  the  half -hour  after  one.  Artois  looked  at  it  and 
at  his  watch,  comparing  them.  The  action  was  me- 
chanical, and  unaccompanied  by  any  thought  connected 
with  it.  When  he  put  his  watch  back  into  his  pocket  he 
did  not  know  whether  its  hands  pointed  to  half-past 
one  or  not.  He  carried  a  light  chair  on  to  the  balcony, 
and  sat  down  there,  crossing  his  legs,  and  leaning  one 
arm  on  the  rail. 

"If  she  touched  the  fire."  Those  words  of  the  Mar- 
chesino  remained  in  the  mind  of  Artois — why,  he  did 
not  know.  He  saw  before  him  a  vision  of  a  girl  and 
of  a  flame.  The  flame  aspired  towards  the  girl,  but  the 
girl  hesitated,  drew  back — then  waited. 

What  had  happened  during  the  hours  of  the  Festa? 
Artois  did  not  know.  The  Marchesino  had  told  him 
nothing,  except  that  he — Artois — was  madly  in  love 
with  Vere.  Monstrous  absurdity!  What  trivial  non- 
sense men  talked  in  moments  of  anger,  when  they  de- 
sired to  wound! 

And  to-morrow  the  Marchesino  would  ask  Vere  to 
marry  him.  Of  course  Vere  would  refuse.  She  had 
no  feeling  for  him.  She  would  tell  him  so.  He  would 
be  obliged  to  understand  that  for  once  he  could  not  have 
his  own  way.  He  would  go  out  of  Vere's  life,  abruptly, 
as  he  had  come  into  it. 

He  would  go.  That  was  certain.  But  others  would 
come  into  Vere's  life.  Fire  would  spring  up  round 
about  her,  the  fire  of  the  love  of  men  for  a  girl  who  has 
fire  within  her,  the  fire  of  the  love  of  youth  for  youth. 

Youth!  Artois  was  not  by  nature  a  sentimentalist 
— and  he  was  not  a  fool.  He  knew  how  to  accept  the 
inevitable  things  life  cruelly  brings  to  men,  without 
futile  struggling,  without  contemptible  pretence.  Quite 
calmly,  quite  serenely,  he  had  accepted  the  snows  of 
middle  age.  He  had  not  secretly  groaned  or  cursed, 

464 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

railed  against  destiny,  striven  to  defy  it  by  travesty,  as 
do  many  men.  He  had  thought  himself  to  be  "above" 
all  that — until  lately.  But  now,  as  he  thought  of  the 
fire,  he  was  conscious  of  an  immense  sadness  that  had 
in  it  something  of  passion,  or  a  regret  that  was,  for  a 
moment,  desperate,  bitter,  that  seared,  that  tortured, 
that  was  scarcely  to  be  endured.  It  is  terrible  to  realize 
that  one  is  at  a  permanent  disadvantage,  which  time 
can  only  increase.  And  just  then  Artois  felt  that  there 
was  nothing,  that  there  could  never  be  anything,  to 
compensate  any  human  being  for  the  loss  of  youth. 

lie  began  to  wonder  about  the  people  of  the  island. 
The  Marchesino  had  spoken  with  a  strange  assurance. 
He  had  dared  to  say: 

' '  You  love  the  Signorina.  I  know  it ;  the  Signora  knows 
it ;  Gaspare — he  knows  it.  And  now  you — you  know  it." 

Was  it  possible  that  his  deep  interest  in  Vere,  his 
paternal  delight  in  her  talent,  in  her  growing  charm, 
in  her  grace  and  sweetness,  could  have  been  mistaken 
for  something  else,  for  the  desire  of  man  for  woman? 
Vere  had  certainly  never  for  a  moment  misunderstood 
him.  That  he  knew  as  surely  as  he  knew  that  he  was 
alive.  But  Gaspare  and — Hermione?  He  fell  into 
deep  thought,  and  presently  he  was  shaken  by  an  emo- 
tion that  was  partly  disgust  and  partly  anxiety.  He  got 
up  from  his  chair  and  looked  out  into  the  night.  The 
weather  was  exquisitely  still,  the  sky  absolutely  clear. 
The  sea  was  like  the  calm  that  dwells  surely  in  the  breast 
of  God.  Naples  was  sleeping  in  the  silence.  But  he 
was  terribly  awake,  and  it  began  to  seem  to  him  as  if 
he  had,  perhaps,  slept  lately,  slept  too  long.  He  was  a 
lover  of  truth,  and  believed  himself  to  be  a  discerner  of 
it.  The  Marchesino  was  but  a  thoughtless,  passionate 
boy,  headstrong,  Pagan,  careless  of  intellect,  and  im- 
mensely physical.  Yet  it  was  possible  that  he  had  been 
enabled  to  see  a  truth  which  Artois  had  neither  seen 

465 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

nor  suspected.  Artois  began  to  believe  it  possible,  as 
he  remembered  many  details  of  the  conduct  of  Hermi- 
one  and  of  Gaspare  in  these  last  summer  days.  There 
had  been  something  of  condemnation  sometimes  in  the 
Sicilian's  eyes  as  they  looked  into  his.  He  had  won- 
dered what  it  meant.  Had  it  meant — that?  And  that 
night  in  the  garden  with  Hermione — 

With  all  his  force  and  fixity  of  purpose  he  fastened 
his  mind  upon  Hermione,  letting  Gaspare  go. 

If  what  the  Marchesino  had  asserted  were  true — 
not  that — but  if  Hermione  had  believed  it  to  be  true, 
much  in  her  conduct  that  had  puzzled  Artois  was  made 
plain.  Could  she  have  thought  that  ?  Had  she  thought 
it?  And  if  she  had — ?  Always  he  was  looking  out  to 
the  stars,  and  to  the  ineffable  calm  of  the  sea.  But  now 
their  piercing  brightness,  and  its  large  repose,  only 
threw  into  a  sort  of  blatant  relief  in  his  mind  its  con- 
sciousness of  the  tumult  of  humanity.  He  saw  Hermione 
involved  in  that  tumult,  and  he  saw  himself.  And  Vere  ? 

Was  it  possible  that  in  certain  circumstances  Vere 
might  hate  him?  It  was  strange  that  to-night  Artois 
found  himself  for  the  first  time  considering  the  Marche- 
sino seriously,  not  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  man  who  perhaps 
knew  something  of  the  world  and  of  character  better 
than  he  did.  The  Marchesino  had  said: 

"If  she  understood  you — how  she  would  hate  you." 

But  surely  Vere  and  he  understood  each  other  very  well. 

He  looked  out  over  the  sea  steadily,  as  he  wished,  as 
he  meant,  to  look  now  at  himself,  into  his  own  heart  and 
nature,  into  his  own  life.  Upon  the  sea,  to  the  right  and 
far  off,  a  light  was  moving  near  the  blackness  of  the 
breakwater.  It  was  the  torch  of  a  fisherman — one  of 
those  eyes  of  the  South  of  which  Artois  had  thought. 
His  eyes  became  fascinated  by  it,  and  he  watched  it 
with  intensity.  Sometimes  it  was  still.  Then  it  trav- 
elled gently  onward,  coming  towards  him.  Then  it 

466 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

stopped  again.  Fire — the  fire  of  youth.  He  thought 
of  the  torch  as  that;  as  youth  with  its  hot  strength,  its 
beautiful  eagerness,  its  intense  desires,  its  spark-like 
hopes,  moving  without  fear  amid  the  dark  mysteries  of 
the  world  and  of  life;  seeking  treasure  in  the  blackness, 
the  treasure  of  an  answering  soul,  of  a  completing  nature, 
of  the  desired  and  desirous  heart,  seeking  its  complement 
of  love — the  other  fire. 

He  looked  far  over  the  sea.  But  there  was  no  other 
fire  upon  it. 

And  still  the  light  came  on. 

And  now  he  thought  of  it  as  Vere. 

She  was  almost  a  child,  but  already  her  fire  was  being 
sought,  longed  for.  And  she  knew  it,  and  must  be 
searching,  too,  perhaps  without  definite  consciousness 
of  what  she  was  doing,  instinctively.  She  was  search- 
ing there  in  the  blackness,  and  in  her  quest  she  was 
approaching  him.  But  where  he  stood  it  was  all  dark. 
There  was  no  flame  lifting  itself  up  that  could  draw  her 
flame  to  it.  The  fire  that  was  approaching  would  pass 
before  him,  would  go  on,  exploring  the  night,  would 
vanish  away  from  his  eyes.  Elsewhere  it  would  seek 
the  fire  it  needed,  the  fire  it  would  surely  find  at  last. 

And  so  it  was.  The  torch  came  on,  passed  softly  by, 
slipped  from  his  sight  beneath  the  bridge  of  Castel  dell' 
Uovo. 

When  it  had  gone  Artois  felt  strangely  deserted  and 
alone,  strangely  unreconciled  with  life.  And  he  remem- 
bered his  conversation  with  Hermione  in  Virgil's  Grotto; 
how  he  had  spoken  like  one  who  scarcely  needed  love, 
having  ambition  and  having  work  to  do,  and  being  no 
longer  young. 

To-night  he  felt  that  every  one  needs  love  first — that 
all  the  other  human  needs  come  after  that  great  necessity. 
He  had  thought  himself  a  man  full  of  self-knowledge, 
full  of  knowledge  of  others.  But  he  had  not  known 

467 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

himself.  Perhaps  even  now  the  real  man  was  hiding 
somewhere,  far  down,  shrinking  away  for  fear  of  being 
known,  for  fear  of  being  dragged  up  into  the  light. 

He  sought  for  this  man,  almost  with  violence. 

A  weariness  lay  beneath  his  violence  to-night,  a  phys- 
ical fatigue  such  as  he  sometimes  felt  after  work.  It 
had  been  produced,  no  doubt,  by  the  secret  anger  he 
had  so  long  controlled,  the  secret  but  intense  curiosity 
which  was  not  yet  satisfied,  and  which  still  haunted 
him  and  tortured  him.  This  curiosity  he  now  strove 
to  expel  from  his  mind,  telling  himself  that  he  had  no 
right  to  it.  He  had  wished  to  preserve  Vere  just  as 
she  was,  to  keep  her  from  all  outside  influences.  And 
now  he  asked  the  real  man  why  he  had  wished  it  ?  Had 
it  been  merely  the  desire  of  the  literary  godfather  to 
cherish  a  pretty  and  promising  talent  ?  Or  had  some- 
thing of  the  jealous  spirit  so  brutally  proclaimed  to 
him  that  night  by  the  Marchesino  really  entered  into 
the  desire  ?  This  torturing  curiosity  to  know  what  had 
happened  at  the  Festa  surely  betrayed  the  existence  of 
some  such  spirit. 

He  must  get  rid  of  it. 

He  began  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down  the  little  bal- 
cony, turning  every  instant  like  a  beast  in  its  cage.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  real  man  had  indeed  lain  in  hid- 
ing, but  that  he  was  coming  forth  reluctantly  into  the  light. 

Possibly  he  had  been  drifting  without  knowing  it 
towards  some  nameless  folly.  He  was  not  sure.  To- 
night he  felt  uncertain  of  himself  and  of  everything, 
almost  like  an  ignorant  child  facing  the  world.  And 
he  felt  almost  afraid  of  himself.  Was  it  possible  that 
he,  holding  within  him  so  much  of  knowledge,  so  much 
of  pride,  could  ever  draw  near  to  a  crazy  absurdity,  a 
thing  that  the  whole  world  would  laugh  at  and  despise  ? 
Had  he  drawn  near  to  it  ?  Was  he  near  it  now  ? 

He  thought  of  all  his  recent  intercourse  with  Vere, 
468 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

going  back  mentally  to  the  day  in  spring  when  he  ar- 
rived in  Naples.  He  followed  the  record  day  by  day 
until  he  reached  that  afternoon  when  he  had  returned 
from  Paris,  when  he  came  to  the  island  to  find  Vere 
alone,  when  she  read  to  him  her  poems.  Very  pitilessly, 
despite  the  excitement  still  raging  within  him,  he  exam- 
ined that  day,  that  night,  recalling  every  incident,  re- 
calling every  feeling  the  incidents  of  those  hours  had 
elicited  from  his  heart.  He  remembered  how  vexed 
he  had  been  when  Hermione  told  him  of  the  engagement 
for  the  evening.  He  remembered  the  moments  after 
the  dinner,  his  sensation  of  loneliness  when  he  listened 
to  the  gay  conversation  of  Vere  and  the  Marchesino,  his 
almost  irritable  anxiety  when  she  had  left  the  restaurant 
and  gone  out  to  the  terrace  in  the  darkness.  He  had 
felt  angry  with  Panacci  then.  Had  he  not  always  felt 
angry  with  Panacci  for  intruding  into  the  island  life  ? 

He  followed  the  record  of  his  intercourse  with  Vere 
until  he  reached  the  Festa  of  that  night,  until  he  reached 
the  moment  in  which  he  was  pacing  the  tiny  balcony 
while  the  night  wore  on  towards  dawn. 

That  was  the  record  of  himself  with  Vere. 

He  began  to  think  of  Hermione.  How  had  all  this 
that  he  had  just  been  telling  over  in  his  mind  affected 
her?  What  had  she  been  thinking  of  it — feeling  about 
it?  And  Gaspare? 

Even  now  Artois  did  not  understand  himself,  did  not 
know  whither  his  steps  might  have  tended  had  not  the 
brutality  of  the  Marchesino  roused  him  abruptly  to  this 
self-examination,  this  self -consideration.  He  did  not 
fully  understand  himself,  and  he  wondered  very  much 
how  Hermione  and  the  Sicilian  had  understood  him — • 
judged  him. 

Artois  had  a  firm  belief  in  the  right  instincts  of  sen- 
sitive but  untutored  natures,  especially  when  linked 
with  strong  hearts  capable  of  deep  love  and  long  fidelity. 

469 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

He  did  not  think  that  Gaspare  would  easily  misread  the 
character  or  the  desires  of  one  whom  he  knew  well. 
Hermione  might.  She  was  tremendously  emotional  and 
impulsive,  and  might  be  carried  away  into  error.  But 
there  was  a  steadiness  in  Gaspare  which  was  impressive, 
which  could  not  be  ignored. 

Artois  wondered  very  much  what  Gaspare  had  thought. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  Gaspare  came  in,  hold- 
ing his  soft  hat  in  his  hand,  and  looking  tragic  and  very 
hot  and  tired. 

"Oh,  Gaspare!"  said  Artois,  coming  in  from  the  bal- 
cony, "they  have  come  back." 

"Lo  so,  Signore." 

"And  they  are  sleeping  here  for  the  night." 

"SI,  Signore." 

Gaspare  looked  at  him  as  if  inquiring  something  of 
him. 

"Sit  down  a  minute,"  said  Artois,  "and  have  some- 
thing to  drink.  You  must  spend  the  night  here,  too. 
The  porter  will  give  you  a  bed." 

"Grazie,  Signore." 

Gaspare  sat  down  by  the  table,  and  Artois  gave  him 
some  Nocera  and  lemon-juice.  He  would  not  have 
brandy  or  whiskey,  though  he  would  not  have  refused 
wine  had  it  been  offered  to  him. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  Artois  asked  him. 

"Signore,  I  have  been  all  over  the  Piazza  di  Masaniello 
and  the  Mercato.  I  have  been  through  all  the  streets 
near  by.  I  have  been  down  by  the  harbor.  And  the 
Signorina?" 

He  stared  at  Artois  searchingly  above  his  glass.  His 
face  was  covered  with  perspiration. 

"I  only  saw  her  for  a  moment.  She  went  to  bed 
almost  immediately." 

"And  that  Signore?" 

"He  has  gone  home." 

470 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Gaspare  was  silent  for  a  minute.     Then  he  said: 

"  If  I  had  met  that  Signore — "  He  lifted  his  right  hand, 
which  was  lying  on  the  table,  and  moved  it  towards  his 
belt. 

He  sighed,  and  again  looked  hard  at  Artois. 

"It  is  better  that  I  did  not  meet  him,"  he  said,  with 
naive  conviction.  "It  is  much  better.  The  Signorina 
is  not  for  him." 

Artois  was  sitting  opposite  to  him,  with  the  table  be- 
tween them. 

"The  Signorina  is  not  for  him,"  repeated  Gaspare, 
with  a  dogged  emphasis. 

His  large  eyes  were  full  of  a  sort  of  cloudy  rebuke  and 
watchfulness.  And  as  he  met  them  Artois  felt  that  he 
knew  what  Gaspare  had  thought.  He  longed  to  say, 
''You  are  wrong.  It  is  not  so.  It  was  never  so."  But 
he  only  said: 

"The  Signor  Marchese  will  know  that  to-morrow." 

And  as  he  spoke  the  words  he  was  conscious  of  an 
immense  sensation  of  relief  which  startled  him.  He  was 
too  glad  when  he  thought  of  the  final  dismissal  of  the 
Marchesino. 

Gaspare  nodded  his  head  and  put  his  glass  to  his  lips. 
When  he  set  it  down  again  it  was  empty.  He  moved  to 
get  up,  but  Artois  detained  him. 

"And  so  you  met  Ruffo  to-night?"  he  said. 

Gaspare's  expression  completely  changed.  Instead  of 
the  almost  cruel  watcher,  he  became  the  one  who  felt  that 
he  was  watched. 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Just  when  the  balloon  went  up?" 

"Si,  Signore.     They  were  beside  me  in  the  crowd." 

"Was  he  alone  with  his  mother?" 

"Si,  Signore.     Quite  alone." 

"Gaspare,  I  have  seen  Ruffo's  mother." 

Gaspare  looked  startled. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Truly,  Signore?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  her  with  him  one  day  at  the  Mergellina. 
She  was  crying." 

"Perhaps  she  is  unhappy.     Her  husband  is  in  prison." 

"Because  of  Peppina." 

"Si." 

"And  to-night  you  spoke  to  her  for  the  first  time  ?" 

Artois  laid  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  final  words. 

"Signore,  I  had  never  met  her  with  Ruffo  before." 

The  two  men  looked  steadily  at  each  other.  A  ques- 
tion that  could  not  be  evaded,  a  question  that  would 
break  like  a  hammer  upon  a  mutual  silence  of  years,  was 
almost  upon  Artois'  lips.  Perhaps  Gaspare  saw  it,  for 
he  got  up  with  determination. 

"  I  am  going  to  bed  now,  Signore.  I  am  tired.  Buona 
notte,  Signore." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  went  out. 

Artois  had  not  asked  his  question.  But  he  felt  that 
it  was  answered. 

Gaspare  knew.     And  he  knew. 

And  Hermione  —  did  Fate  intend  that  she  should 
know? 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

IT  was  nearly  dawn  when  Artois  fell  asleep.  He  did 
not  wake  till  past  ten  o'clock.  The  servant  who  brought 
his  breakfast  handed  him  a  note,  and  told  him  that  the 
ladies  of  the  island  had  just  left  the  hotel  with  Gaspare. 
As  Artois  took  the  note  he  was  conscious  of  a  mingled 
feeling  of  relief  and  disappointment.  This  swift,  almost 
hurried  departure  left  him  lonely,  yet  he  could  not  have 
met  Hermione  and  Vere  happily  in  the  light  of  morn- 
ing. To-day  he  felt  a  self -consciousness  that  was  un- 
usual in  him,  and  that  the  keen  eyes  of  women  could 
not  surely  fail  to  observe.  He  wanted  a  little  time.  He 
wanted  to  think  quietly,  calmly,  to  reach  a  decision  that 
he  had  not  reached  at  night. 

Hermione  and  Vere  had  a  very  silent  voyage.  Gas- 
pare's tragic  humor  cast  a  cloud  about  his  mistresses.  He 
had  met  them  in  the  morning  with  a  look  of  heavy,  al- 
most sullen  scrutiny  in  his  great  eyes,  which  seemed  to 
develop  into  a  definite  demand  for  information.  But 
he  asked  nothing.  He  made  no  allusion  to  the  night 
before.  To  Vere  his  manner  was  almost  cold.  When 
they  were  getting  into  the  boat  at  Santa  Lucia  she  said, 
with  none  of  her  usual  simplicity  and  self-possession,  but 
like  one  making  an  effort  which  was  repugnant: 

"I'm  very  sorry  about  last  night,  Gaspare." 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Signorina." 

"Did  you  get  back  very  late?" 

"I  don't  know,  Signorina.     I  did  not  look  at  the  hour." 

She  looked  away  from  him  and  out  to  sea. 

473 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  repeated. 

And  he  again  said: 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Signorina." 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  they  drew  near  to  the  island. 
The  weather  was  heavily  hot,  languidly  hot  even  upon 
the  water.  There  was  a  haze  hanging  over  the  world  in 
which  distant  objects  appeared  like  unsubstantial  clouds, 
or  dream  things  impregnated  with  a  mystery  that  was 
mournful.  The  voice  of  a  fisherman  singing  not  far  off 
came  to  them  like  the  voice  of  Fate,  issuing  from  the 
ocean  to  tell  them  of  the  sadness  that  was  the  doom  of 
men.  Behind  them  Naples  sank  away  into  the  vaporous 
distance.  Vesuvius  was  almost  blotted  out,  Capri  an 
ethereal  silhouette.  And  their  little  island,  even  when 
they  approached  it,  did  not  look  like  the  solid  land  on 
which  they  had  made  a  home,  but  like  the  vague  shell 
of  some  substance  that  had  been  destroyed,  leaving  its 
former  abiding-place  untenanted. 

As  they  passed  San  Francesco  Vere  glanced  at  him, 
and  Hermione  saw  a  faint  flush  of  red  go  over  her  face. 
Directly  the  boat  touched  the  rock  she  stepped  ashore, 
and  without  waiting  for  her  mother  ran  up  the  steps 
and  disappeared  towards  the  house.  Gaspare  looked 
after  her,  then  stared  at  his  Padrona. 

"Is  the  Signorina  ill?"  he  asked. 

"No,  Gaspare.  But  I  think  she  is  tired  to-day  and  a 
little  upset.  We  had  better  take  no  notice  of  it." 

*'Va  bene,  Signora." 

He  busied  himself  in  making  fast  the  boat,  while 
Hermione  followed  Vere. 

In  the  afternoon  about  five,  when  Hermione  was  sit- 
ting alone  in  her  room  writing  some  letters,  Gaspare  ap- 
peared with  an  angry  and  suspicious  face. 

"Signora/'  he  said,  "that  Signore  is  here." 

' '  What  Signore  ?    The  Marchese ! ' ' 

"SI,  Signora." 

474 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Gaspare  was  watching  his  Padrona's  face,  and  sud- 
denly his  own  face  changed,  lightened,  as  he  saw  the  look 
that  had  come  into  her  eyes. 

"I  did  not  know  whether  you  wished  to  see  him — " 

"Yes,  Gaspare,  I  will  see  him.  You  can  let  him  in. 
Wait  a  moment.  Where  is  the  Signorina?" 

"Up  in  her  room,  Signora." 

"You  can  tell  her  who  is  here,  and  ask  her  whether 
she  wishes  to  have  tea  in  her  room  or  not." 

"Si,  Signora." 

Gaspare  went  out  almost  cheerfully.  He  felt  that 
now  he  understood  what  his  Padrona  was  feeling  and 
what  she  meant  to  do.  She  meant  to  do  in  her  way 
what  he  wanted  to  do  in  his.  He  ran  down  the  steps 
to  the  water  with  vivacity,  and  his  eyes  were  shining  as 
he  came  to  the  Marchesino,  who  was  standing  at  the 
edge  of  the  sea  looking  almost  feverishly  excited,  but 
determined. 

"The  Signora  will  see  you,  Signer  Marchese." 

The  words  hit  the  Marchesino  like  a  blow.  He  stared 
at  Gaspare  for  a  moment  almost  stupidly,  and  hesitated. 
He  felt  as  if  this  servant  had  told  him  something  else. 

"The  Signora  will  see  you,"  repeated  Gaspare, 

"Va  bene,"  said  the  Marchesino. 

He  followed  Gaspare  slowly  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  empty.  Gaspare  placed  a  chair 
for  the  Marchesino.  And  again  the  latter  felt  as  if  he 
had  received  a  blow.  He  glanced  round  him  and  sat 
down,  while  Gaspare  went  away.  For  about  five  min- 
utes he  waited. 

When  he  had  arrived  at  the  island  he  had  been  greatly 
excited.  He  had  felt  full  of  an  energy  that  was  feverish. 
Now,  in  this  silence,  in  this  pause  during  which  patience 
was  forced  upon  him,  his  excitement  grew,  became  fierce, 
dominant.  He  knew  from  Gaspare's  way  of  speaking, 
from  his  action,  from  his  whole  manner,  that  his  fate 
**  475 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

had  been  secretly  determined  in  that  house,  and  that  it 
was  being  rejoiced  over.  At  first  he  sat  looking  at  the 
floor.  Then  he  got  up,  went  to  the  window,  came  back, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  glanced  about  it. 
How  pretty  it  was,  with  a  prettiness  that  he  was  quite 
unaccustomed  to.  In  his  father's  villa  at  Capodimonte 
there  was  little  real  comfort.  And  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  cosiness  of  English  houses.  As  he  looked  at  this 
room  he  felt,  or  thought  he  felt,  Vere  in  it.  He  even 
made  an  effort  scarcely  natural  to  him,  and  tried  to 
imagine  a  home  with  Vere  as  its  mistress. 

Then  he  began  to  listen.  Perhaps  Emilio  was  in  the 
house.  Perhaps  Emilio  was  talking  now  to  the  Signora, 
was  telling  her  what  to  do. 

But  he  heard  no  sound  of  voices  speaking. 

No  doubt  Emilio  had  seen  the  Signora  that  morning 
in  the  hotel.  No  doubt  there  had  been  a  consultation. 
A.nd  probably  at  this  consultation  his — the  Marchesino's 
• — fate  had  been  decided. 

By  Emilio  ? 

At  that  moment  the  Marchesino  actively,  even  furious- 
ly, hated  his  former  friend. 

There  was  a  little  noise  at  the  door;  the  Marchesino 
turned  swiftly,  and  saw  Hermione  coming  in.  He  looked 
eagerly  behind  her.  But  the  door  shut.  She  was  alone. 
She  did  not  give  her  hand  to  him.  He  bowed,  trying  to 
look  calm. 

1 '  Good-afternoon ,  Signora. ' ' 

Hermione  sat  down.     He  followed  her  example. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  wish  to  see  me,  after  yester- 
day, Marchese,"  she  said,  quietly,  looking  at  him  with 
steady  eyes. 

"Signora,  pardon  me,  but  I  should  have  thought  that 
you  would  know." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Signora,  I  am  here  to  ask  the  great  honor  of  your 
476 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

daughter  the  Signorina's  hand  in  marriage.  My  father, 
to  whom — " 

But  Hermione  interrupted  him. 

"You  will  never  marry  my  daughter,  Marchese,"  she 
said. 

A  sudden  red  burned  in  her  cheeks,  and  she  leaned 
forward  slightly,  but  very  quickly,  almost  as  if  an  im- 
pulse had  come  to  her  to  push  the  Marchesino  away 
from  her. 

"But,  Signora,  I  assure  you  that  my  family — " 

"It  is  quite  useless  to  talk  about  it." 

"But  why,  Signora?" 

"My  child  is  not  for  a  man  like  you,"  Hermione  said, 
emphasizing  the  first  word. 

A  dogged  expression  came  into  the  Marchesino 's  face, 
a  fighting  look  that  was  ugly  and  brutal,  but  that  showed 
a  certain  force. 

"I  do  not  understand,  Signora.  I  am  like  other  men. 
What  is  the  matter  with  me?" 

He  turned  a  little  in  his  chair  so  that  he  faced  her 
more  fully. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  me,  Signora?"  he  repeated, 
slightly  raising  his  voice. 

"I  don't  think  you  would  be  able  to  understand  if  I 
tried  to  tell  you." 

"Why  not?     You  think  me  stupid,  then?" 

An  angry  fire  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh  no,  you  are  not  stupid." 

"Then  I  shall  understand." 

Hermione  hesitated.  There  was  within  her  a  hot  im- 
pulse towards  speech,  towards  the  telling  to  this  self- 
satisfied  young  Pagan  her  exact  opinion  of  him.  Yet 
was  it  worth  while?  He  was  going  out  of  their  lives. 
They  would  see  no  more  of  him. 

"I  don't  think  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you,"  she 
said. 

477 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Perhaps  there  is  nothing  to  tell  because  there  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

His  tone  stung  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Marchese.  I  think  there  is  a 
good  deal  to  tell." 

"All  I  say  is,  Signora,  that  I  am  like  other  men." 

He  thrust  forward  his  strong  under  jaw,  showing  his 
big,  white  teeth. 

"There  I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  am  thankful  to  say 
I  know  many  men  who  would  not  behave  as  you  behaved 
last  night." 

"But  I  have  come  to  ask  for  the  Signorina's  hand!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"And  you  think — you  dare  to  think  that.excuses  your 
conduct!" 

She  spoke  with  a  sudden  and  intense  heat. 

"Understand  this,  please,  Marchese.  If  I  gave  my 
consent  to  your  request,  and  sent  for  my  daughter — 

"SI!    Si!"  he  said,  eagerly  leaning  forward  in  his  chair. 

"Do  you  suppose  she  would  come  near  you?" 

"Certainly." 

"You  think  she  would  come  near  a  man  she  will  not 
even  speak  of?" 

"What!" 

"She  won't  speak  of  you.  She  has  told  me  nothing 
about  last  night.  That  is  why  I  know  so  much." 

"She  has  not — the  Signorina  has — not — ?" 

He  stopped.  A  smile  went  over  his  face.  It  was 
sufficiently  obvious  that  he  understood  Vere's  silence 
as  merely  a  form  of  deceit,  a  coquettish  girl's  cold  secret 
from  her  mother. 

"Signora,  give  me  permission  to  speak  to  your  daugh- 
ter, and  you  will  see  whether  it  is  you — or  I — who  under- 
stands her  best." 

"Very  well,  Marchese." 

Hermione  rang  the  bell.  It  was  answered  by  Gaspare. 
478 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"Gaspare,"  said  Hermione,  "please  go  to  the  Sign- 
orina,  tell  her  the  Signor  Marchese  is  here,  and  wishes 
very  much  to  see  her  before  he  goes." 

Gaspare's  face  grew  dark,  and  he  hesitated  by  the 
door. 

"Go,  Gaspare,  please." 

He  looked  into  his  Padrona's  face,  and  went  out  as  if 
reassured.  Hermione  and  the  Marchese  sat  in  silence 
waiting  for  him  to  return.  In  a  moment  the  door  was 
reopened. 

"Signora,  I  have  told  the  Signorina." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

Gaspare  looked  at  the  Marchese  as  he  answered. 

"Signora,  the  Signorina  said  to  me,  'Please  tell  Madre 
that  I  cannot  come  to  see  the  Signor  Marchese.'" 

"You  can  go,  Gaspare." 

He  looked  at  the  angry  flush  on  the  Marchesino's 
cheeks,  and  went  out. 

"Good-bye,  Marchese." 

Hermione  got  up.  The  Marchesino  followed  her  exam- 
ple. But  he  did  not  go.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment 
in  silence.  Then  he  lifted  his  head  up  with  a  jerk. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  in  a  hard,  uneven  voice  that  be- 
trayed the  intensity  of  his  excitement,  "I  see  how  it  is. 
I  understand  perfectly  what  is  happening  here.  You 
think  me  bad.  Well,  I  am  like  other  men,  and  I  am 
not  ashamed  of  it — not  a  bit.  I  am  natural.  I  live 
according  to  my  nature,  and  I  do  not  come  from  your 
north,  but  from  Naples — from  Naples."  He  threw  out 
his  arm,  pointing  at  a  window  that  looked  towards  the 
city.  "If  it  is  bad  to  have  the  blood  hot  in  one's  veins 
and  the  fire  hot  in  one's  head  and  in  one's  heart — very 
well!  I  am  bad.  And  I  do  not  care.  I  do  not  care  a 
bit!  But  you  think  me  stupid.  Si,  Signora,  you  think 
me  a  stupid  boy.  And  I  am  not  that.  And  I  will  show 
you."  He  drew  his  fingers  together,  and  bent  towards 

479 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

her,  slightly  lowering  his  voice.  "From  the  first,  from 
the  very  first  moment,  I  have  seen,  I  have  understood 
all  that  is  happening  here.  From  the  first  I  have  under- 
stood all  that  was  against  me — " 

"Marchese — !" 

"Signora,  pardon  me!  You  have  spoken,  the  Sign- 
orina  has  spoken,  and  now  it  is  for  me  to  speak.  It  is 
my  right.  I  come  here  with  an  honorable  proposal,  and 
therefore  I  say  I  have  a  right—" 

He  put  his  fingers  inside  his  shirt  collar  and  pulled  it 
fiercely  out  from  his  throat. 

"E  il  vecchio!"  he  exclaimed,  with  sudden  passion. 
"E  il  maledetto  vecchio!" 

Hermione's  face  changed.  There  had  been  in  it  a 
firm  look,  a  calmness  of  strength.  But  now,  at  his  last 
words,  the  strength  seemed  to  shrink.  It  dwindled,  it 
faded  out  of  her,  leaving  her  not  collapsed,  but  cowering, 
like  a  woman  who  crouches  down  in  a  corner  to  avoid 
a  blow. 

"It  is  he!  It  is  he!  He  will  not  allow  it,  and  he  is 
master  here." 

"Marchese — " 

' '  I  say  he  is  master — he  is  master — he  has  always  been 
master  here!" 

He  came  a  step  towards  Hermione,  moving  as  a  man 
sometimes  moves  instinctively  when  he  is  determined 
to  make  something  absolutely  clear  to  one  who  does  not 
wish  to  understand. 

"And  you  know  it,  and  every  one  knows  it — everyone. 
When  I  was  in  the  sea,  when  I  saw  the  Signorina  for  the 
first  time,  I  did  not  know  who  she  was,  where  she  lived;  I 
did  not  know  anything  about  her.  I  went  to  tell  my 
friend  about  her — my  friend,  you  understand,  whom  I 
trusted,  to  whom  I  told  everything! — I  went  to  him.  I 
described  the  Signora,  the  Signorina,  the  boat  to  him. 
He  knew  who  the  ladies  were ;  he  knew  directly.  I  saw 

480 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

it  in  his  face,  in  his  manner.  But  what  did  he  say  ?  That 
he  did  not  know,  that  he  knew  nothing.  I  was  not  to 
come  to  the  island.  No  one  was  to  come  to  the  island 
but  he.  So  he  meant.  But  I — I  was  sharper  than  he, 
I  who  am  so  stupid!  I  took  him  to  fish  by  night.  I 
brought  him  to  the  island.  I  made  him  introduce  me 
to  you,  to  the  Signorina.  That  night  I  made  him.  You 
remember?  Well,  then — ever  since  that  night  all  is 
changed  between  us.  Ever  since  that  night  he  is  my 
enemy.  Ever  since  that  night  he  suspects  me,  he 
watches  me,  he  hides  from  me,  he  hates  me.  Oh,  he 
tries  to  conceal  it.  He  is  a  hypocrite.  But  I,  stupid  as 
I  am,  I  see  it  all.  I  see  what  he  is,  what  he  wants,  I  see 
all — all  that  is  in  his  mind  and  heart.  For  this  noble 
old  man,  so  respected,  with  the  white  hairs  and  the  great 
brain,  what  is  he,  what  does  he  do  ?  He  goes  at  night  to 
the  Galleria.  He  consults  with  Maria  Fortunata,  she 
who  is  known  to  all  Naples,  she  who  is  the  aunt  of  that 
girl — that  girl  of  the  town  and  of  the  bad  life,  whom  you 
have  taken  to  be  your  servant  here.  You  have  taken 
her  because  he — he  has  told  you  to  take  her.  He  has 
put  her  here — " 
"Marchese!" 

"I  say  he  has  put  her  here  that  the  Signorina — " 
"Marchese,  I  forbid  you  to  say  that!     It  is  not  true." 
"It  is  true!     It  is  true!     Perhaps  you  are  blind,  per- 
haps you  see  nothing.     I  do  not  know.     But  I  know 
that  I  am  not  blind.     I  love,  and  I  see.     I  see,  I  have 
always  seen  that  he — Emilio — loves  the  Signorina,  that 
he  loves  her  madly,  that  he  wishes,  that  he  means  to 
keep  her  for  himself.     Did  he  not  hide  with  her  in  the 
cave,  in  the  Grotto  of  Virgil,  that  night  when  I  came  to 
serenade  her  on  the  sea  ?     Yes,  he  took  her,  and  he  hid 
her,  because  he  loves  her.     He  loves  her,  he  an  old  man.' 
And  he  thinks — and  he  means — " 
"Marchese — " 

481 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"He  loves  her;  I  say  he  loves  her!" 

"Marchese,  I  must  ask  you  to  go!" 

"I  say—" 

"Marchese,  I  insist  upon  your  going." 

She  opened  the  door.  She  was  very  pale,  but  she 
looked  calm.  The  crouching  woman  had  vanished.  She 
was  mistress  of  herself. 

"Gaspare!"  she  called,  in  a  loud,  sharp  voice  that  be- 
trayed the  inner  excitement  her  appearance  did  not 
show. 

"Signora,"  vociferated  the  Marchesino,  "I  say  and  I 
repeat — " 

"Gaspare!     Come  here!" 

"Signora!"  cried  a  voice  from  below. 

Gaspare  came  running. 

"The  Signer  Marchese  is  going,  Gaspare.  Go  down 
with  him  to  the  boat,  please." 

The  Marchesino  grew  scarlet.  The  hot  blood  rushed 
over  his  face,  up  to  his  forehead,  to  his  hair.  Even  his 
hands  became  red  in  that  moment. 

"Good-bye,  Marchese." 

She  went  out,  and  left  him  standing  with  Gaspare. 

"Signor  Marchese,  shall  I  take  you  to  the  boat?" 

Gaspare's  voice  was  quite  respectful.  The  Marchesino 
made  no  answer,  but  stepped  out  into  the  passage  and 
looked  up  to  the  staircase  that  led  to  the  top  floor  of 
the  house.  He  listened.  He  heard  nothing. 

"Is  the  French  Signore  here?"  he  said  to  Gaspare. 
"  Do  you  hear  me  ?  Is  he  in  this  house  ?" 

"No,  Signore!" 

The  Marchesino  again  looked  towards  the  staircase 
and  hesitated.  Then  he  turned  and  saw  Gaspare  stand- 
ing in  a  watchful  attitude,  almost  like  one  about  to  spring. 

"Stay  there!"  he  said,  loudly,  making  a  violent, 
threatening  gesture  with  his  arm. 

Gaspare  stood  where  he  was  with  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

482 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

A  moment  later  he  heard  the  splash  of  oars  in  the 
sea,  and  knew  that  the  Marchesino's  boat  was  leaving 
the  island. 

He  drew  his  lips  together  like  one  about  to  whistle. 

The  sound  of  the  oars  died  away. 

Then  he  began  to  whistle  softly  "La  Ciocciara." 


THE  ghostly  day  sank  into  a  ghostly  night  that  laid 
pale  hands  upon  the  island,  holding  it  closely,  softly,  in 
a  hypnotic  grasp,  bidding  it  surely  rest,  it  and  those 
who  dwelled  there  with  all  the  dreaming  hours.  A  mist 
hung  over  the  sea,  and  the  heat  did  not  go  with  day, 
but  stayed  to  greet  the  darkness  and  the  strange,  enor- 
mous silence  that  lay  upon  the  waters.  In  the  Casa  del 
Mare  the  atmosphere  was  almost  suffocating,  although 
every  window  was  wide  open.  The  servants  went  about 
their  duties  leaden-footed,  drooping,  their  Latin  vivacity 
quenched  as  by  a  spell.  Vere  was  mute.  It  seemed, 
since  the  episode  of  the  Carmine,  as  if  her  normal  spirit 
had  been  withdrawn,  as  if  a  dumb,  evasive  personality 
replaced  it.  The  impression  made  upon  Hermione  was 
that  the  real  Vere  had  sunk  far  down  in  her  child,  out 
of  sight  and  hearing,  out  of  reach,  beyond  pursuit,  to  a 
depth  where  none  could  follow,  where  the  soul  enjoyed 
the  safety  of  utter  isolation. 

Hermione  did  not  wish  to  pursue  this  anchorite.  She 
did  not  wish  to  draw  near  to  Vere  that  evening.  To 
do  so  would  have  been  impossible  to  her,  even  had  Vere 
been  willing  to  come  to  her.  Since  the  brutal  outburst 
of  the  Marchesino,  she,  too,  had  felt  the  desire,  the  ne- 
cessity, of  a  desert  place,  where  she  could  sit  alone  and 
realize  the  bareness  of  her  world. 

In  that  outburst  of  passion  the  Marchesino  had  gath- 
ered together  and  hurled  at  her  beliefs  that  had  surely 
been  her  own,  but  that  she  had  striven  to  avoid,  that 

484 


she  had  beaten  back  as  spectres  and  unreal,  that  she 
had  even  denied,  tricking,  or  trying  to  trick,  her  terrible 
sense  of  truth.  His  brutality  had  made  the  delicacy  in 
her  crouch  and  sicken.  It  had  been  almost  intolerable 
to  her  to  see  her  friend,  Emile,  thus  driven  out  into  the 
open,  like  one  naked,  to  be  laughed  at,  condemned,  held 
up,  that  the  wild  folly,  the  almost  insane  absurdity  of 
his  secret  self  might  be  seen  and  understood  even  by  the 
blind,  the  determined  in  stupidity. 

She  had  always  had  a  great  reverence  for  her  friend, 
which  had  been  mingled  with  he:  love  for  him,  giving  it 
its  character.  Was  that  reverence  to  be  torn  utterly 
away?  Had  it  already  been  cast  to  the  winds? 

Poor  Emile! 

In  the  first  moments  after  the  departure  of  the  Mar- 
chesino  she  pitied  Emile  intensely  with  all  her  heart  of 
woman.  If  this  thing  were  true,  how  he  must  have  suf- 
fered, how  he  must  still  be  suffering — not  only  in  his 
heart,  but  in  his  mind!  His  sense  of  pride,  his  self- 
respect,  his  passion  for  complete  independence,  his  me- 
ticulous consciousness  of  the  fitness  of  things,  of  what 
could  be  and  of  what  was  impossible — all  must  be  lying 
in  the  dust.  She  could  almost  have  wept  for  him  then. 

But  another  feeling  succeeded  this  sense  of  pity,  a 
sensation  of  outrage  that  grew  within  her  and  became 
almost  ungovernable.  She  had  her  independence  too, 
her  pride,  her  self-respect.  And  now  she  saw  them  in 
dust  that  Emile  had  surely  heaped  about  them.  A 
storm  of  almost  hard  anger  shook  her.  She  tasted  an 
acrid  bitterness  that  seemed  to  impregnate  her,  to  turn 
the  mainspring  of  her  life  to  gall.  She  heard  the  violent 
voice  of  the  young  Neapolitan  saying:  "He  is  master, 
he  is  master,  he  has  always  been  master  here!"  And 
she  tried  to  look  back  over  her  life,  and  to  see  how  things 
had  been.  And,  shaken  still  by  this  storm  of  anger,  she 
felt  as  if  it  were  true,  as  if  she  had  allowed  Artois  to 

485 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

take  her  life  in  his  hands  and  to  shape  it  according  to 
his  will,  as  if  he  had  been  governing  her  although  she 
had  not  known  it.  He  had  been  the  dominant  person- 
ality in  their  mutual  friendship.  His  had  been  the  call- 
ing voice,  hers  the  obedient  voice  that  answered.  Only 
once  had  she  risen  to  a  strong  act,  an  act  that  brought 
great  change  with  it,  and  that  he  had  been  hostile  to. 
That  was  when  she  had  married  Maurice. 

And  she  had  left  Maurice  for  Artois.  From  Africa 
had  come  the  calling,  dominant  voice.  And  even  in  her 
Garden  of  Paradise  she  had  heard  it.  And  even  from 
her  Garden  of  Paradise  she  had  obeyed  it.  For  the  first 
time  she  saw  that  act  of  renunciation  as  the  average  man 
or  woman  would  probably  see  it;  as  an  extraordinary, 
quixotic  act,  to  be  wondered  at  blankly,  or,  perhaps, 
to  be  almost  angrily  condemned.  She  stood  away  from 
her  own  impulsive,  enthusiastic  nature,  and  stared  at  it 
critically — as  even  her  friends  had  often  stared — and 
realized  that  it  was  unusual,  perhaps  extravagant,  per- 
haps sometimes  preposterous.  This  readiness  to  sacrifice 
— was  it  not  rather  slavish  than  regally  loyal  ?  This  for- 
getfulness  of  personal  joy,  this  burnt-offering  of  person- 
ality— was  it  not  contemptible?  Could  such  actions 
bring  into  being  the  respect  of  others,  the  respect  of  any 
man?  Had  Emile  respected  her  for  rushing  to  Africa? 
Or  had  he,  perhaps,  then  and  through  all  these  years, 
simply  wondered  how  she  could  have  done  such  a  thing  ? 

And  Maurice — Maurice?  Oh,  what  had  he  thought? 
How  had  he  looked  upon  that  action  ? 

Often  and  often  in  lonely  hours  she  had  longed  to  go 
down  into  the  grave,  or  to  go  up  into  the  blue,  to  drag 
the  body,  the  soul,  the  heart  she  loved  back  to  her.  She 
had  been  rent  by  a  desire  that  had  made  her  limbs  shud- 
der, or  that  had  flushed  her  whole  body  with  red,  and 
set  her  temples  beating.  The  longing  of  heart  and  flesh 
had  been  so  vehement  that  it  had  seemed  to  her  as  if 

486 


they  must  compel,  or  cease  to  be.  Now,  again,  she  de- 
sired to  compel  Maurice  to  come  to  her  from  his  far, 
distant  place,  but  in  order  that  she  might  make  him  un- 
derstand what  he  had  perhaps  died  misunderstanding; 
why  she  had  left  him  to  go  to  Artois,  exactly  how  she 
had  felt,  how  desperately  sad  to  abandon  the  Garden  of 
Paradise,  how  torn  by  fear  lest  the  perfect  days  were 
forever  at  an  end,  how  intensely  desirous  to  take  him 
with  her.  Perhaps  he  had  felt  cruelly  jealous!  Perhaps 
that  was  why  he  had  not  offered  to  go  with  her  at  once. 
Yes,  she  believed  that  now.  She  saw  her  action,  she 
saw  her  preceding  decision  as  others  had  seen  it,  as  no 
doubt  Maurice  had  seen  it,  as  perhaps  even  Artois  had 
seen  it.  Why  had  she  not  more  fully  explained  her- 
self? Why  had  she  instinctively  felt  that  because  her 
nature  was  as  it  was,  and  because  she  was  bravely  fol- 
lowing it,  every  one  must  understand  her?  Oh,  to  be 
completely  understood!  If  she  could  call  Maurice  back 
for  one  moment,  and  just  make  him  see  her  as  she  had 
been  then:  loyal  to  her  friend,  and  through  and  through 
passionately  loyal  to  him!  If  she  could!  If  she  could! 

She  had  left  Maurice,  the  one  being  who  had  utterly 
belonged  to  her,  to  go  to  Artois.  She  had  lost  the  few 
remaining  days  in  which  she  could  have  been  supremely 
happy.  She  had  come  back  to  have  a  few  short  hours 
devoid  of  calm,  chilled  sometimes  by  the  strangeness  that 
had  intruded  itself  between  her  and  Maurice,  to  have 
one  kiss  in  which  surely  at  last  misunderstanding  was 
lost  and  perfect  love  was  found.  And  then — that ' '  some- 
thing" in  the  water!  And  then — the  gulf. 

In  that  gulf  she  had  not  been  quite  alone.  The  friend 
whom  she  had  carried  away  from  Africa  and  death  had 
been  with  her.  He  had  been  closely  in  her  life  ever 
since.  And  now — 

She  heard  the  Marchesino's  voice:  "I  see  what  he  is, 
what  he  wants,  I  see  all — all  that  is  in  his  mind  and  heart. 

487 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

I  see,  I  have  always  seen,  that  he  loves  the  Signorina, 
that  he  loves  her  madly." 

Vere! 

Hermione  sickened.     Emile  and  Vere  in  that  relation! 

The  storm  of  anger  was  not  spent  yet.  Would  it  ever 
be  spent?  Something  within  her,  the  something,  per- 
haps, that  felt  rejected,  strove  to  reject  in  its  turn,  did 
surely  reject.  Pride  burned  in  her  like  a  fire  that 
cruelly  illumines  night,  shining  upon  the  destruction  it 
is  compassing. 

The  terrible  sense  of  outrage  that  gripped  her  soul  and 
body — her  body  because  Vere  was  bone  of  her  bone, 
flesh  of  her  flesh — seemed  to  be  forcibly  changing  her 
nature,  as  cruel  hands,  prompted  by  murder  in  a  heart, 
change  form,  change  beauty  in  the  effort  to  destroy. 

That  evening  Hermione  felt  herself  being  literally  de- 
faced by  this  sensation  of  outrage  within  her,  a  sensation 
which  she  was  powerless  to  expel. 

She  found  herself  praying  to  God  that  Artois  might 
not  come  to  the  island  that  night.  And  yet,  while  she 
prayed,  she  felt  that  he  was  coming. 

She  dined  with  Vere,  in  almost  complete  silence — try- 
ing to  love  this  dear  child  as  she  had  always  loved  her, 
even  in  certain  evil  moments  of  an  irresistible  jealousy. 
But  she  felt  immensely  far  from  Vere,  distant  from  her  as 
one  who  does  not  love  from  one  who  loves;  yet  hideously 
near,  too,  like  one  caught  in  the  tangle  of  an  enforced 
intimacy  rooted  in  a  past  which  the  present  denies  and 
rejects.  Directly  dinner  was  over  they  parted,  driven 
by  the  mutual  desire  to  be  alone. 

And  then  Hermione  waited  for  that  against  which  she 
had  prayed. 

Artois  would  come  to  the  island  that  night.  Useless 
to  pray!  He  was  coming.  She  felt  that  he  was  on  the 
sea,  environed  by  this  strange  mist  that  hung  to-night 
over  the  waters.  She  felt  that  he  was  coming  to  Vere. 

488 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  had  gone  to  Africa  to  save  him — in  order  that  he 
might  fall  in  love  with  her  then  unborn  child. 

Monstrosities,  the  monstrosities  that  are  in  life,  deny 
them,  beat  them  back,  close  our  eyes  to  them  as  we  will, 
rose  up  around  her  in  the  hot  stillness.  She  felt  haunted, 
terrified.  She  was  forcibly  changed,  and  now  all  the 
world  was  changing  about  her. 

She  must  have  relief.  She  could  not  sit  there  among 
spectres  waiting  for  the  sound  of  oars  that  would  tell 
her  Vere's  lover  had  come  to  the  island.  How  could  she 
detach  herself  for  a  moment  from  this  horror? 

She  thought  of  Ruffo. 

As  the  thought  came  to  her  she  got  up  and  went  out 
of  the  house. 

Only  when  she  was  out-of-doors  did  she  fully  realize 
the  strangeness  of  the  night.  The  heat  of  it  was  flaccid. 
The  island  seemed  to  swim  in  a  fatigued  and  breathless 
atmosphere.  The  mist  that  hung  about  it  was  like  the 
mist  in  a  vapor-bath. 

Below  the  vague  sea  lay  a  thing  exhausted,  motion- 
less, perhaps  fainting  in  the  dark.  And  in  this  heat  and 
stillness  there  was  no  presage,  no  thrill,  however  subtle, 
of  a  coming  change,  of  storm.  Rather  there  was  the 
deadness  of  eternity,  as  if  this  swoon  would  last  forever, 
neither  developing  into  life,  nor  deepening  into  death. 

Hermione  had  left  the  house  feverishly,  yearning  to 
escape  from  her  company  of  spectres,  yearning  to  escape 
from  the  sensation  of  ruthless  hands  defacing  her.  As 
she  passed  the  door-sill  it  was  only  with  difficulty  that 
she  suppressed  a  cry  of  "Ruffo!"  a  cry  for  help.  But 
when  the  night  took  her  she  no  longer  had  any  wish  to 
disturb  it  by  a  sound.  She  was  penetrated  at  once  by 
an  atmosphere  of  fatality.  Her  pace  changed.  She 
moved  on  slowly,  almost  furtively.  She  felt  inclined  to 
creep. 

Would  Ruffo  be  at  the  island  to-night  ?  Would  Artois 

489 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

really  come?  It  seemed  unlikely,  almost  impossible. 
But  if  Ruffo  were  there,  if  Artois  came,  it  would  be 
fatality.  That  she  was  there  was  fatality. 

She  walked  always  slowly,  always  furtively,  to  the 
crest  of  the  cliff. 

She  stood  there.     She  listened. 

Silence. 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  quite  alone  on  the  island.  She 
could  scarcely  believe  that  Vere,  that  Gaspare,  that  the 
servants  were  there — among  them  Peppina  with  her  cross. 

They  said  Peppina  had  the  evil  eye.  Had  she  per- 
haps cast  a  spell  to-night? 

Hermione  did  not  smile  at  such  an  imagination  as  she 
dismissed  it. 

She  waited  and  listened,  but  not  actively,  for  she  did 
not  feel  as  if  Ruffo  could  ever  stand  with  her  in  the  em- 
brace of  such  a  night,  he,  a  boy,  with  bright  hopes  and 
eager  longings,  he  the  happy  singer  of  the  song  of  Mer- 
gellina. 

And  yet,  when  in  a  moment  she  found  him  standing 
by  her  side,  she  accepted  his  presence  as  a  thing  in- 
evitable. 

It  had  been  meant,  perhaps  for  centuries,  that  they 
two  should  stand  together  that  night,  speak  together 
as  now  they  were  about  to  speak. 

"Signora,  buona  sera." 

"Buona  sera,  Ruffo." 

"The  Signorina  is  not  here  to-night?" 

"I  think  she  is  in  the  house.  I  think  she  is  tired  to- 
night." 

"The  Signorina  is  tired  after  the  Festa,  Signora." 

"You  knew  we  were  at  the  Festa,  Ruffo?" 

"Ma  si,  Signora." 

"Did  we  tell  you  we  were  going?     I  had  forgotten." 

"It  was  not  that,  Signora.  But  I  saw  the  Signorina 
at  the  Festa.  Did  not  Don  Gaspare  tell  you?" 

490 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Gaspare  said  nothing.     Did  he  see  you?" 
She  spoke  languidly.     Quickness  had  died  out  of  her 
under  the  influence  of  the  night.     But  already  she  felt  a 
slight  yet  decided  sense  of  relief,  almost  of  peace.     She 
drew  that  from  Ruffo.     And,  standing  very  close  to  him, 
she  watched  his  eager  face,  hoping  to  see  presently  in  it 
the  expression  that  she  loved. 
"Did  he  see  you,  Ruffo?" 

"Ma  si,  Signora.     I  was  with  my  poor  mamma." 
"Your  mother!     I  wish  I  had  met  her!" 
"SI,  Signora.     I  was  with  my  mamma  in  the  Piazza 
of  Masaniello.     We  had  been  eating  snails,  Signora,  and 
afterwards  watermelon,  and  we  had  each  had  a  glass 
of  white  wine.     And  I  was  feeling  very  happy,  because 
my  poor  mamma  had  heard  good  news." 
"What  was  that?" 

"To-morrow  my  Patrigno  is  to  be  let  out  of  prison." 
"So  soon!     But  I  thought  he  had  not  been  tried." 
"No,  Signora.     But  he  is  to  be  let  out  now.     Perhaps 
he  will  be  put  back  again.     But  now  he  is  let  out  be- 
cause " — he  hesitated — "because — well,  Signora,  he  has 
rich  friends,  he  has  friends  who  are  powerful  for  him. 
And  so  he  is  let  out  just  now." 
"I  understand." 

"Well,  Signora,  and  after  the  white  wine  we  were 
feeling  happy,  and  we  were  going  to  see  everything:  the 
Madonna,  and  Masaniello,  and  the  fireworks,  and  the  fire- 
balloon.     Did  you  see  the  fire-balloon,  Signora?" 
"Yes,  Ruffo.     It  was  very  pretty." 
His  simple  talk  soothed  her.     He  was  so  young,  so 
happy,  so  free  from  the  hideous  complexities  of  life;  no 
child  of  tragedy,  but  the  son  surely  of  a  love  that  had 
been  gay  and  utterly  contented. 

"SI,  Signora!  Per  dio,  Signora,  it  was  wonderful! 
It  was  just  before  the  fire -balloon  went  up,  Signora, 
that  I  saw  the  Signorina  with  the  Neapolitan  Signorino. 

3*  4QI 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

And  close  behind  them  was  Don  Gaspare.  I  said  to 
my  mamma,  'Mamma,  ecco  the  beautiful  Signorina  of 
the  island!'  My  mamma  was  excited,  Signora.  She 
held  on  to  my  arm,  and  she  said:  'RufFmo,'  she  said, 
'  show  her  to  me.  Where  is  she  ?'  my  mamma  said,  Sign- 
ora. 'And  is  the  Signora  Madre  with  her?'  Just  then, 
Signora,  the  people  moved,  and  all  of  a  sudden  there  we 
were,  my  mamma  and  I,  right  in  front  of  Don  Gaspare." 

Ruffo  stopped,  and  Hermione  saw  a  change,  a  gravity, 
come  into  his  bright  face. 

"Well,  Ruffo?"  she  said,  wondering  what  was  coming. 

"I  said  to  my  mamma,  Signora,  'Mamma,  this  is  Don 
Gaspare  of  the  island.'  Signora,  my  mamma  looked  at 
Don  Gaspare  for  a  minute.  Her  face  was  quite  funny. 
She  looked  white,  Signora,  my  mamma  looked  white, 
almost  like  the  man  at  the  circus  who  comes  in  with  the 
dog  to  make  us  laugh.  And  Don  Gaspare,  too,  he 
looked"  —  Ruffo  paused,  then  used  a  word  beloved  of 
Sicilians  who  wish  to  be  impressive — "he  looked  mysteri- 
ous, Signora.  Don  Gaspare  looked  mysterious." 

' '  Mysterious  ?     Gaspare  ? ' ' 

"  Si,  Signora,  he  did.  And  he  looked  almost  white, 
too,  but  not  like  my  mamma.  And  then  my  mamma 
said,  'Gaspare!'  just  like  that,  Signora,  and  put  out  her 
hand — so.  And  Don  Gaspare's  face  got  red  and  hot. 
And  then  for  a  minute  they  spoke  together,  Signora, 
and  I  could  not  hear  what  they  said.  For  Don  Gaspare 
stood  with  his  back  so  that  I  should  not  hear.  And  then 
the  balloon  went  sideways  and  the  people  ran,  and  I 
did  not  see  Don  Gaspare  any  more.  And  after  that, 
Signora,  my  mamma  was  crying  all  the  time.  And  she 
would  not  tell  me  anything.  I  only  heard  her  say:  'To 
think  of  its  being  Gaspare!  To  think  of  its  being  Gas- 
pare on  the  island!'  And  when  we  got  home  she  said 
to  me,  'Ruffo,'  she  said,  'has  Gaspare  ever  said  you  were 
like  somebody?'  What  is  it,  Signora?" 

492 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Nothing,  Ruffo.     Go  on." 

"But—" 

"Go  on,  Ruffo." 

"'Has  Gaspare  ever  said  you  were  like  somebody?' 
my  mamma  said." 

"And  you — what  did  you  say?" 

"I  said,  'No,'  Signora.  And  that  is  true.  Don  Gas- 
pare has  never  said  I  was  like  somebody." 

The  boy  had  evidently  finished  what  he  had  to  say. 
He  stood  quietly  by  Hermione,  waiting  for  her  to  speak 
in  her  turn.  For  a  moment  she  said  nothing.  Then  she 
put  her  hand  on  Ruffe's  arm. 

"Whom  do  you  think  your  mother  meant  when  she 
said  'somebody,'  Ruffo?" 

"Signora,  I  do  not  know." 

"But  surely — didn't  you  ask  whom  she  meant?" 

"No,  Signora.  I  told  my  mamma  Don  Gaspare  had 
never  said  that.  She  was  crying.  And  so  I  did  not 
say  anything  more." 

Hermione  still  held  his  arm  for  a  moment.  Then  her 
hand  dropped  down. 

Ruffo  was  looking  at  her  steadily  with  his  bright  and 
searching  eyes. 

"Signora,  do  you  know  what  she  meant?" 

"I!  How  can  I  tell,  Ruffo?  I  have  never  seen  your 
mother.  How  can  I  know  what  she  meant?" 

"No,  Signora." 

Again  there  was  a  silence.     Then  Hermione  said: 

"I  should  like  to  see  your  mother,  Ruffo." 

"SI,  Signora." 

"I  must  see  her." 

Hermione  said  the  last  words  in  a  low  and  withdrawn 
voice,  like  one  speaking  to  herself.  As  she  spoke  she 
was  gazing  at  the  boy  beside  her,  and  in  her  eyes  there 
was  a  mystery — a  mystery  almost  like  that  of  the 
night. 

493 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Ruffo,"  she  added,  in  a  moment,  "I  want  you  to 
promise  me  something." 

"Si,  Signora." 

"Don't  speak  to  any  one  about  the  little  talk  we 
have  had  to-night.  Don't  say  anything,  even  to  Gas- 
pare." 

"No,  Signora." 

For  a  short  time  they  remained  together  talking  of 
other  things.  Hermione  spoke  only  enough  to  encour- 
age Ruffo.  And  always  she  was  watching  him.  But 
to-night  she  did  not  see  the  look  she  longed  for,  the  look 
that  made  Maurice  stand  before  her.  Only  she  dis- 
cerned, or  -believed  she  discerned,  a  definite  physical 
resemblance  in  the  boy  to  the  dead  man,  a  certain  re- 
semblance of  outline,  a  likeness  surely  in  the  poise  of 
the  head  upon  the  strong,  brave-looking  neck,  and  in 
a  trait  that  suggested  ardor  about  the  full  yet  delicate 
lips.  Why  had  she  never  noticed  these  things  before? 
Had  she  been  quite  blind?  Or  was  she  now  imagina- 
tive? Was  she  deceiving  herself? 

"Good-night,  Ruffo,"  she  said,  at  last. 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  stood  bareheaded. 

"Good-night,  Signora." 

He  put  back  the  cap  on  his  dark  hair  with  a  free  and 
graceful  gesture. 

Was  not  that,  too,  Maurice? 

"A  rivederci,  Signora." 

He  was  gone. 

Hermione  stood  alone  in  the  fatal  night.  She  had 
forgotten  Vere.  She  had  forgotten  Artois.  The  words 
of  Ruffo  had  led  her  on  another  step  in  the  journey  it 
was  ordained  that  she  should  make.  She  felt  the  under- 
things.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  in  the  night 
the  dull  murmuring  of  the  undercurrents,  that  carry 
through  wayward,  or  terrible,  channels  the  wind-driven 
bark  of  life.  What  could  it  mean,  this  encounter  just 

494 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

described  to  her:  this  pain,  this  emotion  of  a  woman, 
her  strange  question  to  her  son?  And  Gaspare's  agita- 
tion, his  pallor,  his  "mysterious"  face,  the  colloquy  that 
Ruffo  was  not  allowed  to  hear! 

What  did  it  mean?  That  woman's  question — that 
question! 

"What  is  it?  What  am  I  near?"  Ruffo "s  mother 
knew  Gaspare,  must  have  known  him  intimately  in  the 
past.  When?  Surely  long  ago  in  Sicily;  for  Ruffo  was 
sixteen,  and  Hermione  felt  sure — knew,  in  fact — that 
till  they  came  to  the  island  Gaspare  had  never  seen 
Ruffo. 

That  woman's  question! 

Hermione  went  slowly  to  the  bench  and  sat  down  by 
the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

What  could  it  possibly  mean? 

Could  it  mean  that  this  woman,  Ruffo's  mother,  had 
once  known  Maurice,  known  him  well  enough  to  see  in 
her  son  the  resemblance  to  him? 

But  then— 

Hermione,  as  sometimes  happened,  having  reached 
truth  instinctively  and  with  a  sure  swiftness,  turned  to 
retreat  from  it.  She  had  lost  confidence  in  herself.  She 
feared  her  own  impulses.  Now,  abruptly,  she  told  her- 
self that  this  idea  was  wholly  extravagant.  Ruffo  prob- 
ably resembled  some  one  else  whom  his  mother  and  Gas- 
pare knew.  That  was  far  more  likely.  That  must  be 
the  truth. 

But  again  she  seemed  to  hear  in  the  night  the  dull 
murmurings  of  those  undercurrents.  And  many,  many 
times  she  recurred  mentally  to  that  weeping  woman's 
question  to  her  son — that  question  about  Gaspare. 

Gaspare — he  had  been  strange,  disturbed  lately.  Her- 
mione had  noticed  it;  so  had  the  servants.  There  had 
been  in  the  Casa  del  Mare  an  oppressive  atmosphere 
created  by  the  mentality  of  some  of  its  inhabitants. 

495 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Even  she,  on  that  day  when  she  had  returned  from 
Capri,  had  felt  a  sensation  of  returning  to  meet  some 
grievous  talc. 

She  remembered  Artois  now,  recalling  his  letter  which 
she  had  found  that  day. 

Gaspare  and  Artois— did  they  both  suspect,  or  both 
know,  something  which  they  had  been  concealing  from 
her? 

Suddenly  she  began  to  feel  frightened.  Yet  she  did 
not  form  in  her  mind  any  definite  conception  of  what 
such  a  mutual  secret  might  be.  She  simply  began  to 
feel  frightened,  almost  like  a  child. 

She  said  to  herself  that  this  brooding  night,  with  its 
dumbness,  its  heat,  its  vaporous  mystery,  was  affecting 
her  spirit.  And  she  got  up  from  the  bench,  and  began 
to  walk  very  slowly  towards  the  house. 

When  she  did  this  she  suddenly  felt  sure  that  while 
she  had  been  on  the  crest  of  the  cliff  Artois  had  arrived 
at  the  island,  that  he  was  now  with  Vere  in  the  house. 
She  knew  that  it  was  so. 

And  again  there  rushed  upon  her  that  sensation  of 
outrage,  of  being  defaced,  and  of  approaching  a  dwelling 
in  which  things  monstrous  had  taken  up  their  abode. 

She  came  to  the  bridge  and  paused  by  the  rail.  She 
felt  a  sort  of  horror  of  the  Casa  del  Mare  in  which  Artois 
was  surely  sitting — alone  or  with  Vere?  With  Vere. 
For  otherwise  he  would  have  come  up  to  the  cliff. 

She  leaned  over  the  rail.  She  looked  into  the  Pool. 
One  boat  was  there  just  below  her,  the  boat  to  which 
Ruffo  belonged.  Was  there  another?  She  glanced  to 
the  right.  Yes;  there  lay  by  the  rock  a  pleasure-boat 
from  Naples. 

Artois  had  come  in  that. 

She  looked  again  at  the  other  boat,  searching  its 
shadowy  blackness  for  the  form  of  Ruffo.  She  longed 
that  he  might  be  awake.  She  longed  that  he  might 

496 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

N 

sing,  in  his  happy  voice,  of  the  happy  summer  nights,  of 
the  sweet  white  moons  that  light  the  Southern  summer 
nights,  of  the  bright  eyes  of  Rosa,  of  the  sea  of  Mergel- 
lina.  But  from  the  boat  there  rose  no  voice,  and  the 
mist  hung  heavily  over  the  silent  Pool. 

Then  Hermione  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  across  the 
Pool,  seeking  the  little  light  of  San  Francesco.  Only 
the  darkness  and  the  mist  confronted  her.  She  saw  no 
light— and  she  trembled  like  one  to  whom  the  omens 
are  hostile. 

She  trembled  and  hid  her  face  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  turned  and  went  up  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

WHEN  Hermione  reached  the  door  of  the  Casa  del 
Mare  she  did  not  go  in  immediately,  but  waited  on  the 
step.  The  door  was  open.  There  was  a  dim  lamp  burn- 
ing in  the  little  hall,  which  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
passage.  She  looked  up  and  saw  a  light  shining  from 
the  window  of  her  sitting-room.  She  listened;  there 
was  no  sound  of  voices. 

They  were  not  in  there. 

She  was  trying  to  crush  down  her  sense  of  outrage,  to 
feel  calm  before  she  entered  the  house. 

Perhaps  they  had  gone  into  the  garden.  The  night 
was  terribly  hot.  They  would  prefer  to  be  out-of-doors. 
Vere  loved  the  garden.  Or  they  might  be  on  the  ter- 
race. 

She  stepped  into  the  hall  and  went  to  the  servants' 
staircase.  Now  she  heard  voices,  a  laugh. 

"Giulia!"  she  called. 

The  voices  stopped  talking,  but  it  was  Gaspare  who 
came  in  answer  to  her  call.  She  looked  down  to  him. 

"Don't  come  up,  Gaspare.     Where  is  the  Signorina?" 

"The  Signorina  is  on  the  terrace,  Signora — with  Don 
Emilio." 

He  looked  up  at  her  very  seriously  in  the  gloom.  She 
thought  of  that  meeting  at  the  Festa,  and  longed  to 
wring  from  Gaspare  his  secret. 

"Don  Emilio  is  here?" 

"SI,  Signora." 

"How  long  ago  did  he  come?" 
498 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"About  half  an  hour,  I  think,  Signora." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Don  Emilio  told  me  not  to  bother  you,  Signora^ 
that  he  would  just  sit  and  wait." 

"I  see.     And  the  Signorina?" 

"I  did  not  tell  her,  either.  She  was  in  the  garden 
alone,  but  I  have  heard  her  talking  on  the  terrace  with 
the  Signore.  Are  you  ill,  Signora?" 

"No.     All  right,  Gaspare!" 

She  moved  away.  His  large,  staring  eyes  followed 
her  till  she  disappeared  in  the  passage.  The  passage 
was  not  long,  but  it  seemed  to  Hermione  as  if  a  multi- 
tude of  impressions,  of  thoughts,  of  fears,  of  determina- 
tions rushed  through  her  heart  and  brain  while  she 
walked  down  it  and  into  the  room  that  opened  to  the 
terrace.  This  room  was  dark. 

As  she  entered  it  she  expected  to  hear  the  voices  from 
outside.  But  she  heard  nothing. 

They  were  not  on  the  terrace,  then! 

She  again  stood  still.  Her  heart  was  beating  violently, 
and  she  felt  violent  all  over,  thrilling  with  violence  like 
one  on  the  edge  of  some  outburst. 

She  looked  towards  the  French  window.  Through  its 
high  space  she  saw  the  wan  night  outside,  a  sort  of  thin 
paleness  resting  against  the  blackness  in  which  she  was 
hidden.  And  as  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  their 
environment  she  perceived  that  the  pallor  without  was 
impinged  upon  by  two  shadowy  darknesses.  Very  faint 
they  were,  scarcely  relieved  against  the  night,  very  still 
and  dumb — two  shadowy  darknesses,  Emile  and  Vere 
sitting  together  in  silence. 

When  Hermione  understood  this  she  remained  where 
she  was,  trying  to  subdue  even  her  breathing.  Why 
were  they  not  talking?  What  did  this  mutual  silence, 
this  mutual  immobility  mean  ?  She  was  only  a  few  feet 
from  them.  Yet  she  could  not  hear  a  human  sound, 

499 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

even  the  slightest.  There  was  something  unnatural, 
but  also  tremendously  impressive  to  her  in  their  silence. 
She  felt  as  if  it  signified  something  unusual,  something 
of  high  vitality.  She  felt  as  if  it  had  succeeded  some 
speech  that  was  exceptional,  and  that  had  laid  its  spell, 
of  joy  or  sorrow,  upon  both  their  spirits. 

And  she  felt  much  more  afraid,  and  also  much  more 
alone,  than  she  would  have  felt  had  she  found  them 
talking. 

Presently,  as  the  silence  continued,  she  moved  softly 
back  into  the  passage.  She  went  down  it  a  little  way, 
then  returned,  walking  briskly  and  loudly.  In  this  ac- 
tion her  secret  violence  was  at  play.  When  she  came 
to  the  room  she  grasped  the  door-handle  with  a  force 
that  hurt  her  hand.  She  went  in,  shut  the  door  sharply 
behind  her,  and  without  any  pause  came  out  upon  the 
terrace. 

"Emile!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  getting  up  from  his  garden-chair 
quickly. 

"Gaspare  told  me  you  were  here." 

"I  have  been  here  about  half  an  hour." 

She  had  not  given  him  her  hand.     She  did  not  give  it. 

*'  I  didn't  hear  you  talking  to  Vere,  so  I  wondered — 
I  almost  thought — " 

"That  I  had  gone  without  seeing  you?  Oh  no.  It 
isn't  very  late.  You  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  me  at 
once?" 

"Of  course  not." 

His  manner — or  so  it  seemed  to  her — was  strangely 
uneasy  and  formal,  and  she  thought  his  face  looked 
drawn,  almost  tortured.  But  the  light  was  very  dim. 
She  could  not  be  sure  of  that. 

Vere  had  said  nothing,  had  not  moved  from  her  seat. 

There  was  a  third  chair.  As  Hermione  took  it  and 
drew  it  slightly  forward,  she  looked  towards  Vere,  and 

500 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

thought  that  she  was  sitting  in  a  very  strange  position. 

In  the  darkness  it  seemed  to  the  mother  as  if  her  child's 

body  were  almost  crouching  in  its  chair,  as  if  the  head 

were  drooping,  as  if — 

"Vere!     Is  anything  the  matter  with  you?" 
Suddenly,  as  if  struck  sharply,  Vere  sprang  up  and 

passed  into  the  darkness  of  the  house,  leaving  a  sound 

that  was  like  a  mingled  exclamation  and  a  sob  behind 

her. 

"Emile!" 

"Emile!" 

"Hermione?" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Vere?  What  have  you 
been  doing  to  Vere?" 

"I!" 

"Yes,  you!     No  one  else  is  here." 

Hermione's  violent,  almost  furious  agitation  was  audi- 
ble in  her  voice. 

"I  should  never  wish  to  hurt  Vere — you  know  that." 

His  voice  sounded  as  if  he  were  deeply  moved. 

"I  must —    Vere!     Vere!" 

She  moved  towards  the  house.  But  Artois  stepped 
forward  swiftly,  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm,  and  stopped 
her. 

"No,  leave  Vere  alone  to-night!"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"She  wishes  to  be  alone  to-night." 

"But  I  find  her  here  with  you." 

There  was  a  harsh  bitterness  of  suspicion,  of  doubt, 
in  her  tone  that  he  ought  surely  to  have  resented.  But 
he  did  not  resent  it. 

"I  was  sitting  on  the  terrace,"  he  said,  gently.  "Vere 
came  in  from  the  garden.  Naturally  she  stayed  to  en- 
tertain me  till  you  were  here." 

"And  directly  I  come  she  rushes  away  into  the  house!" 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Perhaps  there  was — something  may  have  occurred 
to  upset  her." 

"What  was  it?" 

Her  voice  was  imperious. 

"You  must  tell  me  what  it  was!"  she  said,  as  he  was 
silent. 

"Hermione,  my  friend,  let  us  sit  down.  Let  us  at 
any  rate  be  with  each  other  as  we  always  have  been — 
till  now." 

He  was  almost  pleading  with  her,  but  she  did  not  feel 
her  hardness  melting.  Nevertheless  she  sat  down. 

"Now  tell  me  what  it  was." 

"I  don't  think  I  can  do  that,  Hermione." 

"I  am  her  mother.  I  have  a  right  to  know.  I  have 
a  right  to  know  everything  about  my  child's  life." 

In  those  words,  and  in  the  way  they  were  spoken, 
Hermione's  bitter  jealousy  about  the  two  secrets  kept 
from  her,  but  shared  by  Artois,  rushed  out  into  the 
light. 

"I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  in  Vere's  life  that  might 
not  be  told  to  the  whole  world  without  shame;  and  yet 
there  may  be  many  things  that  an  innocent  girl  would 
not  care  to  tell  to  any  one." 

"But  if  things  are  told  they  should  be  told  to  the 
mother.  The  mother  comes  first." 

He  said  nothing. 

"The  mother  comes  first!"  she  repeated,  almost  fierce- 
ly. "And  you  ought  to  know  it.  You  do  know  it!" 

"You  do  come  first  with  Vere." 

"  If  I  did,  Vere  would  confide  in  me  rather  than  in  any 
one  else." 

As  Hermione  said  this,  all  the  long-contained  bitter- 
ness caused  by  Vere's  exclusion  of  her  from  the  knowl- 
edge that  had  been  freely  given  to  Artois  brimmed  up 
suddenly  in  her  heart,  overflowed  boundaries,  seemed 
to  inundate  her  whole  being. 

502 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  do  not  come  first,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  trembled,  almost  broke. 

"You  know  that  I  do  not  come  first.  You  have  just 
told  me  a  lie." 

"Hermione!" 

His  voice  was  startled. 

"You  know  it  perfectly  well.  You  have  known  it  for 
a  long  time." 

Hot  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  were  about  to  fall.  With 
a  crude  gesture,  almost  like  that  of  a  man,  she  put  up 
her  hands  to  brush  them  away. 

"You  have  known  it,  you  have  known  it,  but  you  try 
to  keep  me  in  the  dark." 

Suddenly  she  was  horribly  conscious  of  the  darkness 
of  the  night  in  which  they  were  together,  of  the  dark- 
ness of  the  world. 

"You  love  to  keep  me  in  the  dark,  in  prison.  It  is 
cruel,  it  is  wicked  of  you." 

"But  Hermione — " 

"Take  care,  Emile,  take  care — or  I  shall  hate  you  for 
keeping  me  in  the  dark." 

Her  passionate  words  applied  only  to  the  later  events 
in  which  Vere  was  concerned.  But  his  mind  rushed 
back  to  Sicily,  and  suddenly  there  came  to  his  memory 
some  words  he  had  once  read,  he  did  not  know  when, 
or  where: 

"The  spirit  that  resteth  upon  a  lie  is  a  spirit  in  prison." 

As  he  remembered  them  he  felt  guilty,  guilty  before 
Hermione.  He  saw  her  as  a  spirit  confined  for  years  in 
a  prison  to  which  his  action  had  condemned  her.  Yes, 
she  was  in  the  dark.  She  was  in  an  airless  place.  She 
was  deprived  of  the  true  liberty,  that  great  freedom 
which  is  the  accurate  knowledge  of  the  essential  truths 
of  our  own  individual  lives.  From  his  mind  in  that 
moment  the  cause  of  Hermione 's  outburst,  Vere  and  her 
childish  secrets,  were  driven  out  by  a  greater  thing  that 

503 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

came  upon  it  like  a  strong  and  mighty  wind — the  mem- 
ory of  that  lie,  in  which  he  had  enclosed  his  friend's  life 
for  years,  that  lie  on  which  her  spirit  had  rested,  on 
which  it  was  resting  still.  And  his  sense  of  truth  did 
not  permit  him  to  try  to  refute  her  accusation.  Indeed, 
he  was  filled  with  a  desire  that  nearly  conquered  him — 
there  and  then,  brutally,  clearly,  nakedly,  to  pour  forth 
to  his  friend  all  the  truth,  to  say  to  her: 

"You  have  a  strong,  a  fiery  spirit,  a  spirit  that  hates 
the  dark,  that  hates  imprisonment,  a  spirit  that  can 
surely  endure,  like  the  eagle,  to  gaze  steadfastly  into 
the  terrible  glory  of  the  sun.  Then  come  out  of  the 
darkness,  come  out  of  your  prison.  I  put  you  there — 
let  me  bring  you  forth.  This  is  the  truth — listen!  hear 
it! — it  is  this — it  is  this — and — this!" 

This  desire  nearly  conquered  him.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  conquered  him  but  for  an  occurrence  that,  sim- 
ple though  it  was,  changed  the  atmosphere  in  which 
their  souls  were  immersed,  brought  in  upon  them  an- 
other world  with  the  feeling  of  other  lives  than  their 
own. 

The  boat  to  which  Ruffo  belonged,  going  out  of  the 
Pool  to  the  fishing,  passed  at  this  moment  slowly  upon 
the  sea  beneath  the  terrace,  and  from  the  misty  dark- 
ness his  happy  voice  came  up  to  them  in  the  song  of 
Mergellina  which  he  loved: 

"  Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1'  Estate 

Mi  fugge  il  sonno  accanto  a  la  marina: 
Mi  destan  le  dolcissime  serate 

GK  occhi  di  Rosa  e  i1  mar  di  Mergellina." 

Dark  was  the  night,  moonless,  shrouded  in  the  mist. 
But  his  boy's  heart  defied  it,  laughed  at  the  sorrowful 
truths  of  life,  set  the  sweet  white  moon  in  the  sky,  cov- 
ered the  sea  with  her  silver.  Artois  turned  towards  the 
song  and  stood  still.  But  Hermione,  as  if  physically 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

compelled  towards  it,  moved  away  down  the  terrace, 
following  in  the  direction  in  which  the  boat  was  going. 

As  she  passed  Artois  he  saw  tears  running  down  her 
cheeks.  And  he  said  to  himself: 

"No,  I  cannot  tell  her;  I  can  never  tell  her.  If  she  is 
to  be  told,  let  Ruffo  tell  her.  Let  Ruffo  make  her  under- 
stand. Let  Ruffo  lift  her  up  from  the  lie  on  which  I 
have  made  her  rest,  and  lead  her  out  of  prison." 

As  this  thought  came  to  him  a  deep  tenderness  tow- 
ards Hermione  flooded  his  heart.  He  stood  where  he 
was.  Far  off  he  still  heard  Ruffo 's  voice  drifting  away 
in  the  mist  out  to  the  great  sea.  And  he  saw  the  vague 
form  of  Hermione  leaning  down  over  the  terrace  wall, 
towards  the  sea,  the  song,  and  Ruffo. 

How  intensely  strange,  how  mysterious,  how  subtle 
was  the  influence  housed  within  the  body  of  that  sing- 
ing boy,  that  fisher-boy,  which,  like  an  issuing  fluid,  or 
escaping  vapor,  or  perfume,  had  stirred  and  attracted 
the  childish  heart  of  Vere,  had  summoned  and  now  held 
fast  the  deep  heart  of  Hermione. 

Just  then  Artois  felt  as  if  in  the  night  he  was  walking 
with  the  Eternities,  as  if  that  song,  now  fading  away 
across  the  sea,  came  even  from  them.  We  do  not  die. 
For  in  that  song  to  which  Hermione  bent  down — the 
dead  man  lived  when  that  boy's  voice  sang  it.  In  that 
boat,  now  vanishing  upon  the  sea,  the  dead  man  held 
an  oar.  In  that  warm  young  heart  of  Ruffo  the  dead 
man  moved,  and  spoke — spoke  to  his  child,  Vere,  whom 
he  had  never  seen,  spoke  to  his  wife,  Hermione,  whom  he 
had  deceived,  yet  whom  he  had  loved. 

Then  let  him — let  the  dead  man  himself — speak  out 
of  that  temple  which  he  had  created  in  a  moment  of  law- 
less passion,  out  of  that  son  whom  he  had  made  to  live 
by  the  action  which  had  brought  upon  him  death. 

Ruffo — all  was  in  the  hands  of  Ruffo,  to  whom  Her- 
mione, weeping,  bent  for  consolation. 

5°5 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  song  died  away.  Yet  Hermione  did  not  move, 
but  still  leaned  over  the  sea.  She  scarcely  knew  where 
she  was.  The  soul  of  her,  the  suffering  soul,  was  voyag- 
ing through  the  mist  with  Ruffo,  was  voyaging  through 
the  mist  and  through  the  night  with — her  Sicilian  and 
all  the  perfect  past.  It  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment 
that  she  had  lost  Vere  in  the  dark,  that  she  had  lost 
Emile  in  the  dark,  that  even  Gaspare  was  drifting  from 
her  in  a  mist  of  secrecy  which  he  did  not  intend  that 
she  should  penetrate. 

There  was  only  Ruffo  left. 

He  had  no  secrets.  He  threw  no  darkness  round  him 
and  those  who  loved  him.  In  his  happy,  innocent  song 
was  his  happy,  innocent  soul. 

She  listened,  she  leaned  down,  almost  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  towards  the  sea.  And  in  that  moment 
she  knew  in  her  mind  and  she  felt  in  her  heart  that 
Ruffo  was  very  near  to  her,  that  he  meant  very  much 
to  her,  even  that  she  loved  him. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

ARTOIS  left  the  island  that  night  without  speaking  to 
Hermione.  He  waited  a  long  time.  But  she  did  not 
move  to  come  to  him.  And  he  did  not  dare  to  go  to  her. 
He  did  not  dare!  In  all  their  long  friendship  never  be- 
fore had  his  spirit  bent  before,  or  retreated  as  if  in  fear 
from  Hermione's.  To-night  he  was  conscious  that  in 
her  fierce  anger,  and  afterwards  in  her  tears,  she  had 
emancipated  herself  from  him.  He  was  conscious  of 
her  force  as  he  had  never  been  conscious  of  it  before. 
Something  within  him  almost  abdicated  to  her  intensity. 
And  at  last  he  turned  and  went  softly  away  from  the 
terrace.  He  descended  to  the  sea.  He  left  the  island. 

Were  they  any  longer  friends  ? 

As  the  boat  gave  itself  to  the  mist  he  wondered.  It 
had  come  to  this,  then — that  he  did  not  know  whether 
Hermione  and  he  were  any  longer  friends.  Almost  im- 
perceptibly, with  movement  so  minute  that  it  had 
seemed  like  immobility,  they  had  been  drifting  apart 
through  these  days  and  nights  of  the  summer.  And  now 
abruptly  the  gulf  appeared  between  them. 

He  felt  just  then  that  they  could  never  more  be  friends, 
that  their  old  happy  camaraderie  could  never  be  re- 
established. 

That  they  could  ever  be  enemies  was  unthinkable. 
Even  in  Hermione's  bitterness  and  anger  Artois  felt  her 
deep  affection.  In  her  cry,  "Take  care,  Emile,  or  I  shall 
hate  you  for  keeping  me  in  the  dark!"  he  heard  only  the 
hatred  that  is  the  other  side  of  love. 

S3  507 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

But  could  they  ever  be  comrades  again  ?  And  if  they 
could  not,  what  could  they  be? 

As  the  boat  slipped  on,  under  the  Saint's  light,  which 
was  burning  although  the  mist  had  hidden  it  from  Her- 
mione's  searching  eyes,  and  out  to  the  open  sea,  Artois 
heard  again  her  fierce  exclamation.  It  blended  with 
Vere's  sob.  He  looked  up  and  saw  the  faint  lights  of  the 
Casa  del  Mare  fading  from  him  in  the  night.  And  an 
immense  sadness,  mingled  with  an  immense,  but  chaotic, 
longing  invaded  him.  He  felt  horribly  lonely,  and  he 
felt  a  strange,  new  desire  for  the  nearness  to  him  of  life. 
He  yearned  to  feel  life  close  to  him,  pulsing  with  a 
rhythm  to  which  the  rhythm  of  his  being  answered.  He 
yearned  for  that  strange  and  exquisite  satisfaction,  com- 
pounded of  mystery  and  wonder,  and  thrilling  with  some- 
thing akin  to  pain,  that  is  called  forth  in  the  human 
being  who  feels  another  human  being  centring  all  its 
highest  faculties,  its  strongest  powers,  its  deepest  hopes 
in  him.  He  desired  intensely,  as  he  had  never  desired 
before,  true  communion  with  another,  that  mingling  of 
bodies,  hearts,  and  spirits,  that  is  the  greatest  proof  of 
God  to  man. 

The  lights  of  the  Casa  del  Mare  were  lost  to  his  eyes 
in  the  night.  He  looked  for  them  still.  He  strained  his 
eyes  to  see  them.  But  the  powerful  night  would  not 
yield  up  its  prey. 

And  now,  in  the  darkness  and  with  Hermione's  last 
words  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  felt  almost  overwhelmed  by 
the  solitariness  of  his  life  in  the  world  of  lives. 

That  day,  before  he  came  to  the  island,  he  had  met 
himself  face  to  face  like  a  man  meeting  his  double.  He 
had  stripped  himself  bare.  He  had  sear  hed  himself  for 
the  truth.  Remembering  all  the  Marchesino  had  said, 
he  had  demanded  of  his  heart  the  truth,  uncertain 
whether  it  would  save  or  slay  him.  It  had  not  slain  him. 
When  the  colloquy  was  over  he  was  still  upright. 

508 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

But  he  had  realized  as  never  before  the  delicate  poise 
of  human  nature,  set,  without  wings,  on  a  peak  with 
gulfs  about  it.  Had  he  not  looked  in  time,  and  with 
clear,  steadfast  eyes,  might  he  not  have  fallen? 

His  affection  for  Vere  was  perfectly  pure,  was  the  love 
of  a  man  without  desire  for  a  gracious  and  charming 
child.  It  still  was  that.  He  knew  it  for  that  by  the 
wave  of  disgust  that  went  over  him  when  his  imagination, 
prompted  by  the  Marchesino's  brutality,  set  pictures  be- 
fore him  of  himself  in  other  relations  with  Vere.  The 
real  man  in  him  recoiled  so  swiftly,  so  uncontrollably, 
that  he  was  reassured  as  to  his  own  condition.  And  yet 
he  found  much  to  condemn,  something  to  be  contemptu- 
ous of,  something  almost  to  weep  over — that  desire  to 
establish  a  monopoly — that  almost  sickly  regret  for  his 
vanished  youth,  that  bitterness  against  the  community 
to  which  all  young  things  instinctively  belong,  whatever 
their  differences  of  intellect,  temperament,  and  feeling. 

Could  he  have  fallen? 

Even  now  he  did  not  absolutely  know  whether  such 
a  decadence  might  have  been  possible  to  him  or  not. 
But  that  now  it  would  not  be  possible  he  felt  that  he 
did  know. 

Age  could  never  complete  youth,  and  Vere  must  be 
complete.  He  had  desired  to  make  her  gift  for  song 
complete.  He  could  never  desire  to  mutilate  her  life. 
Had  he  not  said  to  himself  one  day,  as  his  boat  glided 
past  the  sloping  gardens  of  Posilipo,  "Vere  must  be 
happy." 

Yet  that  evening  he  had  made  her  unhappy. 

He  had  come  to  the  island  from  his  self-examination 
strong  in  the  determination  to  be  really  himself,  no  long- 
er half  self -deceived  and  so  deceiving.  He  had  gone  out 
upon  the  terrace,  and  waited  there.  But  when  Vere  had 
come  to  join  him,  he  had  not  been  able  to  be  natural. 
In  his  desire  to  rehabilitate  himself  thoroughly  and  swift- 

509 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ly  in  his  own  opinion  he  must  have  been  almost  harsh  to 
the  child.  She  had  approached  him  a  little  doubtfully. 
She  had  needed  specially  just  then  to  be  met  with  even 
more  than  the  usual  friendship.  Artois  had  seen  in  her 
face,  in  her  expressive  eyes,  a  plea  not  for  forgiveness — 
there  was  no  need  of  that,  but  for  compassion,  an  appeal 
to  him  to  ignore  and  yet  to  sympathize,  that  was  ex- 
quisitely young  and  winning.  But,  because  of  his  self- 
examination,  and  because  he  was  feeding  acutely,  he 
had  been  abrupt,  cold,  changed  in  his  manner.  They 
had  sat  down  together  in  the  dark,  and  after  some  un- 
easy conversation,  Vere,  perhaps  eager  to  make  things 
easier  between  herself  and  "Monsieur  Emile,"  had 
brought  up  the  subject  of  her  poems  with  a  sort  of  anx- 
ious simplicity,  and  a  touch  of  timidity  that  yet  was 
confidential.  And  Artois,  still  recoiling  secretly  from 
that  which  might  possibly  have  become  a  folly  but  could 
never  have  been  anything  more,  had  told  Vere  plainly 
and  almost  sternly  that  she  must  go  on  her  literary 
path  unaided,  unadvised  by  him. 

"I  was  glad  to  advise  you  at  the  beginning,  Vere," 
he  had  said,  finally;  "  but  now  I  must  leave  you  to  your- 
self to  work  out  your  own  salvation.  You  have  talent. 
Trust  it.  Trust  yourself.  Do  not  lean  on  any  one,  least 
of  all  on  me." 

"No,  Monsieur  Emile,"  she  had  answered. 

Those  were  the  last  words  exchanged  between  them 
before  Hermione  came  and  questioned  Vere.  And  only 
when  Vere  slipped  into  the  house,  leaving  that  sound  of 
pain  behind  her,  did  Artois  realize  how  cruel  he  must 
have  seemed  in  his  desire  quickly  to  set  things  right. 

He  realized  that;  but,  subtle  though  he  was,  he  did 
not  understand  the  inmost  and  root-cause  of  Vere's  loss 
of  self-control. 

Vere  was  feeling  bitterly  ashamed,  had  been  bending 
under  this  sense  of  undeserved  shame,  ever  since  the 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Marchesino's  stratagem  on  the  preceding  night.  Al- 
though she  was  gay  and  fearless,  she  was  exquisitely 
sensitive.  Peppina's  confession  had  roused  her  maiden- 
hood to  a  theoretical  knowledge  of  certain  things  in  life, 
of  certain  cruel  phases  of  man's  selfishness  and  lust  which, 
till  then,  she  had  never  envisaged.  The  Marchesino's 
madness  had  carried  her  one  step  further.  She  had  not 
actually  looked  into  the  abyss.  But  she  had  felt  her- 
self near  to  something  that  she  hated  even  more  than 
she  feared  it.  And  she  had  returned  to  the  hotel  full 
of  a  shrinking  delicacy,  not  to  be  explained,  intense  as 
snow,  which  had  made  the  meeting  with  her  mother  and 
Artois  a  torture  to  her,  which  had  sealed  her  lips  to 
silence  that  night,  which  had  made  her  half  apology  to 
Gaspare  in  the  morning  a  secret  agony,  which  had  even 
set  a  flush  on  her  face  when  she  looked  at  San  Francesco. 
The  abrupt  change  in  Monsieur  Emile's  demeanor  tow- 
ards her  made  her  feel  as  if  she  were  despised  by  him 
because  she  had  been  the  victim  of  the  Marchesino's 
trick.  Or  perhaps  Monsieur  Emile  completely  misun- 
derstood her;  perhaps  he  thought — perhaps  he  dared  to 
think,  that  she  had  helped  the  Marchesino  in  his  ma- 
noeuvre. 

Vere  felt  almost  crucified,  but  was  too  proud  to  speak 
of  the  pain  and  bitterness  within  her.  Only  when  her 
mother  came  out  upon  the  terrace  did  she  suddenly  feel 
that  she  could  bear  no  more. 

That  night,  directly  she  was  in  her  room,  she  locked 
her  door.  She  was  afraid  that  her  mother  might  follow 
her,  to  ask  what  was  the  matter. 

But  Hermione  did  not  come.  She,  too,  wished  to  be 
alone  that  night.  She,  too,  felt  that  she  could  not  be 
looked  at  by  searching  eyes  that  night. 

She  did  not  know  when  Artois  left  the  terrace.  Long 
after  Ruffo's  song  had  died  away  she  still  leaned  over 
the  sea,  following  his  boat  with  her  desirous  heart. 

5" 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

Artois,  too,  was  on  the  sea.  She  did  not  know  it.  She 
was,  almost  desperately,  seeking  a  refuge  in  the  past. 
The  present  failed  her.  That  was  her  feeling.  Then 
she  would  cling  to  the  past.  And  in  that  song,  prompted 
now  by  her  always  eager  imagination,  she  seemed  to 
hear  it.  For  she  was  almost  fiercely,  feverishly,  begin- 
ning to  find  resemblances  in  Ruffo  to  Maurice.  At  first 
she  had  noticed  none,  although  she  had  been  strangely 
attracted  by  the  boy.  Then  she  had  seen  that  look, 
fleeting  but  vivid,  that  seemed  for  a  moment  to  bring 
Maurice  before  her.  Then,  on  the  cliff,  she  had  dis- 
cerned a  likeness  of  line,  a  definite  similarity  of  features. 
And  now — was  not  that  voice  like  Maurice's  ?  Had  it 
not  his  wonderful  thrill  of  youth  in  it,  that  sound  of  the 
love  of  life,  which  wakes  all  the  pulses  of  the  body  and 
stirs  all  the  depths  of  the  heart  ? 

"  Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1'  estate " 

The  voice  upon  the  sea  was  singing  always  the  song  of 
Mergellina.  But  to  Hermione  it  began  to  seem  that  the 
song  was  changing  to  another  song,  and  that  the  voice 
that  was  dying  away  across  the  shrouded  water  was 
sinking  into  the  shadows  of  a  ravine  upon  a  mountain- 
side. 

"Ciao,  Ciao,  Ciao, 
Morettina  bella,  ciao " 

Maurice  was  going  to  the  fishing  under  the  sweet 
white  moon  of  Sicily.  And  she — she  was  no  longer 
leaning  down  from  the  terrace  of  the  Casa  del  Mare,  but 
from  the  terrace  of  the  House  of  the  Priest. 

"  Prima  di  partire 
Un  bacio  ti  voglio  da!" 

That  kiss,  which  he  had  given  her  before  he  had  gone 
away  from  her  forever!  She  seemed  to  feel  it  on  her 

512 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

lips  again,  and  she  shut  her  eyes,  giving  herself  up  to  a 
passion  of  the  imagination. 

When  she  opened  them  again  she  felt  exhausted  and 
terribly  alone.  Maurice  had  gone  down  into  the  ravine. 
He  was  never  coming  back.  Ruffo  was  taken  by  the 
mists  and  by  the  night.  She  lifted  herself  up  from  the 
balustrade  and  looked  round,  remembering  suddenly  that 
she  had  left  Artois  upon  the  terrace.  He  had  disap- 
peared silently,  without  a  word  of  good-bye. 

And  now,  seeing  the  deserted  terrace,  she  recollected 
her  fierce  attack  upon  Artois,  she  remembered  how  she 
had  stood  in  the  black  room  watching  the  two  dark- 
nesses outside,  listening  to  their  silence.  And  she  re- 
membered her  conversation  with  Ruffo. 

Actualities  rushed  back  upon  her  memory.  She  felt 
as  if  she  heard  them  coming  like  an  army  to  the  assault. 
Her  brain  was  crowded  with  jostling  thoughts,  her  heart 
with  jostling  feelings  and  with  fears.  She  was  like  one 
trying  to  find  a  safe  path  through  a  black  troop  of  threat- 
ening secrets.  What  had  happened  that  night  between 
Vere  and  Emile?  Why  had  Vere  fled?  Why  had  she 
wept?  And  the  previous  night  with  the  Marchesino — 
Vere  had  not  spoken  of  it  to  her  mother.  Hermione  had 
found  it  impossible  to  ask  her  child  for  any  details.  There 
was  a  secret  too.  And  there  were  the  two  secrets, 
which  now  she  knew,  but  which  Vere  and  Artois  thought 
were  unknown  to  her  still.  And  then — that  mystery 
of  which  Ruffo  had  innocently  spoken  that  night. 

As  Hermione,  moving  in  imagination  through  the  black 
and  threatening  troop,  came  to  that  last  secret,  she  was 
again  assailed  by  a  curious,  and  horrible,  sensation  of 
apprehension.  She  again  felt  very  little  and  very  help- 
less, like  a  child. 

She  moved  away  from  the  balustrade  and  turned  tow- 
ards the  house.  Above,  in  her  sitting-room,  the  light 
still  shone.  The  other  windows  on  this  side  of  the  Casa 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

del  Mare  were  dark.  She  felt  that  she  must  go  to  that 
light  quickly,  and  she  hastened  in,  went  cautiously — 
though  now  almost  panic-stricken — through  the  black 
room  with  the  French  windows,  and  came  into  the  dimly 
lighted  passage  that  led  to  the  front  door. 

Gaspare  was  there  locking  up.     She  came  to  him. 

"Good-night,  Gaspare,"  she  said,  stopping. 

"Good-night,  Signora,"  he  answered,  slightly  turning 
his  head,  but  not  looking  into  her  face. 

Hermione  turned  to  go  up-stairs.  She  went  up  two  or 
three  steps.  She  heard  a  bolt  shot  into  its  place  below 
her,  and  she  stopped  again.  To-night  she  felt  for  the 
first  time  almost  afraid  of  Gaspare.  She  trusted  him  as 
she  had  always  trusted  him — completely.  Yet  that 
trust  was  mingled  with  this  new  and  dreadful  sensation 
of  fear  bred  of  her  conviction  that  he  held  some  secret 
from  her  in  his  breast.  Indeed,  it  was  her  trust  in  Gas- 
pare which  made  her  fear  so  keen.  As  she  stood  on  the 
staircase  she  knew  that.  If  Gaspare  kept  things,  kept 
anything  from  her  that  at  all  concerned  her  life,  it  must 
be  because  he  was  faithfully  trying  to  save  her  from  some 
pain  or  misery. 

But  perhaps  she  was  led  away  by  her  depression  of 
to-night.  Perhaps  this  mystery  was  her  own  creation, 
and  he  would  be  quite  willing  to  explain,  to  clear  it  away 
with  a  word. 

"Gaspare,"  she  said,  "have  you  finished  locking  up?" 

"Not  quite,  Signora.  I  have  the  front  of  the  house 
to  do." 

"Of  course.  Well,  when  you  have  finished  come  up 
to  my  room  for  a  minute,  will  you?" 

"Va  bene,  Signora." 

Was  there  reluctance  in  his  voice  ?  She  thought  there 
was.  She  went  up-stairs  and  waited  in  her  sitting-room. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  Gaspare  was  a  very  long  time  lock- 
ing up.  She  leaned  out  of  the  window  that  overlooked 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  terrace  to  hear  if  he  was  shutting  the  French  win- 
dows. When  she  did  so  she  saw  him  faintly  below, 
standing  by  the  balustrade.  She  watched  him,  wonder- 
ing what  he  was  doing,  till  at  last  she  could  not  be 
patient  any  longer. 

"Gaspare!"  she  called  out. 

He  started  violently. 

"I  am  coming,  Signora." 

"I  am  waiting  for  you." 

"A  moment,  Signora!" 

Yes,  his  voice  was  reluctant;  but  he  went  at  once  tow- 
ards the  house  and  disappeared.  Directly  afterwards 
she  heard  the  windows  being  shut  and  barred,  then  a 
step  coming  rather  slowly  up  the  staircase. 

"Che  vuole,  Signora?" 

How  many  times  she  had  heard  that  phrase  from  Gas- 
pare's lips!  How  many  times  in  reply  she  had  expressed 
some  simple  desire!  To-night  she  found  a  difficulty  in 
answering  that  blunt  question.  There  was  so  much  that 
she  wished,  wanted — wide  and  terrible  want  filled  her 
heart. 

"Che  vuole?"  he  repeated. 

As  she  heard  it  a  second  time,  suddenly  Hermione 
knew  that  for  the  moment  she  was  entirely  dominated 
by  Ruffo  and  that  which  concerned,  which  was  connected 
with  him.  The  fisher-boy  had  assumed  an  abrupt  and 
vast  importance  in  her  life. 

"Gaspare,"  she  said,  "you  know  me  pretty  well  by 
this  time,  don't  you?" 

"Know  you,  Signora!  Of  course  I  know  you!"  He 
gazed  at  her,  then  added,  "Who  should  know  you, 
Signora,  if  I  do  not?" 

"That  is  just  what  I  mean,  Gaspare.  I  wonder — I 
wonder — "  She  broke  off.  "Do  you  understand,  Gas- 
pare, how  important  you  are  to  me,  how  necessary  you 
are  to  me?" 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

An  expressive  look  that  was  full  of  gentleness  dawned 
in  his  big  eyes. 

"SI,  Signora,  I  understand." 

"And  I  think  you  ought  to  understand  my  charactei 
by  this  time."  She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  "But  I 
sometimes  wonder — I  mean  lately — I  sometimes  wonder 
whether  you  do  quite  understand  me." 

"Why,  Signora?" 

"Do  you  know  what  I  like  best  from  the  people  who 
are  near  me,  who  live  with  me?" 

"Si,  Signora." 

"What?" 

"Affection,  Signora.  You  like  to  be  cared  for,  Signo- 
ra." 

She  felt  tears  rising  again  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  love  affection.  But — there's  something  else, 
too.  I  love  to  be  trusted.  I'm  not  curious.  I  hate  to 
pry  into  people's  affairs.  But  I  love  to  feel  that  I  am 
trusted,  that  those  I  trust  and  care  for  would  never  keep 
me  in  the  dark — " 

She  thought  again  of  Emile  and  of  the  night  and  her 
outburst. 

"The  dark,  Signora?" 

"Don't  you  understand  what  I  mean?  When  you 
are  in  the  dark  you  can't  see  anything.  You  can't  see 
the  things  you  ought  to  see." 

"You  are  not  in  the  dark,  Signora." 

He  spoke  rather  stupidly,  and  looked  towards  the 
lamp,  as  if  he  misunderstood  her  explanation.  But  she 
knew  his  quickness  of  mind  too  well  to  be  deceived. 

"Gaspare,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know  whether  you  are 
going  to  be  frank  with  me,  but  I  am  going  to  be  frank 
with  you.  Sit  down  for  a  minute,  and — please  shut  the 
door  first." 

He  looked  at  her,  looked  down,  hesitated,  then  went 
slowly  to  the  door  and  shut  it  softly.  Hermione  was 

516 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

sitting  on  the  sofa  when  he  turned.  He  came  back  and 
stood  beside  her. 

"Si,  Signora?" 

"I'd  rather  you  sat  too,  Gaspare." 

He  took  his  seat  on  a  hard  chair.  His  face  had 
changed.  Generally  it  was  what  is  called  "an  open 
face."  Now  it  looked  the  opposite  to  that.  When  she 
glanced  at  him,  almost  furtively,  Hermione  was  once 
more  assailed  by  fear.  She  began  to  speak  quickly,  with 
determination,  to  combat  her  fear. 

"Gaspare,  I  may  be  wrong,  but  for  some  time  I  have 
felt  now  and  then  as  if  you  and  I  were  not  quite  as  we 
used  to  be  together,  as  if — well,  now  and  then  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  there  was  a  wall,  and  I  was  on  one  side  of  the 
wall  and  you  were  on  the  other.  I  don't  like  that  feel- 
ing, after  having  you  with  me  so  long.  I  don't  like  it, 
and  I  want  to  get  rid  of  it." 

She  paused. 

"Si,  Signora,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  was  now  looking  at  the  floor.  His  arms  were  rest- 
ing on  his  knees,  and  his  hands  hung  down  touching  each 
other. 

"It  seems  to  me  that — I  never  noticed  this  thing  be- 
tween us  until — until  Ruffo  came  to  the  island." 

"Ruffo?" 

"Yes,  Gaspare,  Ruffo." 

She  spoke  with  increasing  energy  and  determination, 
still  combating  her  still  formless  fear.  And  because  of 
this  interior  combat  her  manner  and  voice  were  not 
quite  natural,  though  she  strove  to  keep  them  so,  know- 
ing well  how  swiftly  a  Sicilian  will  catch  the  infection  of 
a  strange  mood,  will  be  puzzled  by  it,  be  made  obstinate, 
even  dogged  by  it. 

' '  I  am  sure  that  all  this — I  mean  that  this  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  Ruffo." 

Gaspare  said  nothing. 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  know  you  like  Ruffo,  Gaspare.  I  believe  you  like 
him  very  much.  Don't  you?" 

"Signora,  Ruffo  has  never  done  me  any  harm." 

"Ruffo  is  very  fond  of  you." 

She  saw  Gaspare  redden. 

"He  respects  and  admires  you  more  than  other  peo- 
ple. I  have  noticed  that." 

Gaspare  cleared  his  throat  but  did  not  look  up  or 
make  any  remark. 

"Both  the  Signorina  and  I  like  Ruffo,  too.  We  feel — 
at  least  I  feel — I  feel  as  if  he  had  become  one  of  the 
family." 

Gaspare  looked  up  quickly  and  his  eyes  were  surely 
fierce. 

"One  of  the  family!"  he  exclaimed. 

Hermione  wondered  if  he  were  jealous. 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  put  him  with  you,  Gaspare. 
No — but  he  seems  to  me  quite  a  friend.  Tell  me — do 
you  know  anything  against  Ruffo?" 

"Non,  Signora." 

It  came  very  slowly  from  his  lips. 

"Absolutely  nothing?" 

"Signora,  I  don't  know  anything  bad  of  Ruffo." 

"I  felt  sure  not.  Don't  you  like  his  coming  to  the 
island?" 

Gaspare's  face  was  still  flushed. 

"Signora,  it  is  nothing  to  do  with  me." 

A  sort  of  dull  anger  seemed  to  be  creeping  into  his 
voice,  an  accent  of  defiance  that  he  was  trying  to  con- 
trol. Hermione  noticed  it,  and  it  brought  her  to  a  re- 
solve that,  till  now,  she  had  avoided.  Her  secret  fear 
had  prompted  her  to  delay,  to  a  gradual  method  of 
arriving  at  the  truth.  Now  she  sat  forward,  clasping 
her  hands  together  hard,  and  speaking  quickly: 

"Gaspare,  I  feel  sure  that  you  noticed  long  ago  some- 
thing very  strange  in  Ruffo.  Perhaps  you  noticed  it 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

almost  at  once.  I  believe  you  did.  It  is  this.  Ruffo 
has  an  extraordinary  look  in  his  face  sometimes,  a  look 
of — of  your  dead  Padrone.  I  didn't  see  it  for  some  time, 
but  I  think  you  saw  it  directly.  Did  you?  Did  you, 
Gaspare?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Gaspare  only  cleared  his 
throat  again  more  violently.  Hermione  waited  for  a 
minute.  Then,  understanding  that  he  was  not  going  to 
answer,  she  went  on: 

"You  have  seen  it — we  have  both  noticed  it.  Now  I 
want  to  tell  you  something — something  that  happened 
to-night." 

Gaspare  started,  looked  up  quickly,  darted  at  his  Pa- 
drona  a  searching  glance  of  inquiry. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

"Niente!" 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  her,  staring  with  a  tremendous 
directness  that  was  essentially  southern.  And  she  re- 
turned his  gaze. 

"I  was  with  Ruffo  this  evening.  We  talked,  and  he 
told  me  that  he  met  you  at  the  Festa  last  night.  He 
told  me,  too,  that  he  was  with  his  mother." 

She  waited,  to  give  him  a  chance  of  speaking,  of  fore- 
stalling any  question.  But  he  only  stared  at  her  with 
dilated  eyes. 

"He  told  me  that  you  knew  his  mother,  and  that  his 
mother  knew  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"Of  course,  there  is  no  reason.  What  surprised  me 
rather" — she  was  speaking  more  slowly  now,  and  more 
unevenly — "was  this — " 

"Si?" 

Gaspare's  voice  was  loud.  He  lifted  up  his  hands  and 
laid  them  heavily  on  his  knees. 

"SI?"  he  repeated. 

"After  you  had  spoken  with  her,  she  cried,  Ruffo 's 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

mother  cried,  Gaspare.  And  she  said,  'To  think  of  its 
being  Gaspare  on  the  island!'" 

"Is  that  all?" 

"No." 

A  look  that  was  surely  a  look  of  fear  came  into  his 
face,  rendering  it  new  to  Hermione.  Never  before  had 
she  seen  such  an  expression — or  had  she  once  —  long 
ago — one  night  in  Sicily  ? 

"That  isn't  all.  Ruffo  took  his  mother  home,  and 
when  they  got  home  she  said  to  him  this,  '  Has  Gaspare 
ever  said  you  were  like  somebody  ?' " 

Gaspare  said  nothing. 

"Did  you  hear;  Gaspare?" 

"SI,  Signora." 

"Gaspare,  it  seems  to  me" — Hermione  was  speaking 
now  very  slowly,  like  one  shaping  a  thought  in  her  mind 
while  she  spoke — "it  seems  to  me  strange  that  you  and 
Ruffo 's  mother  should  have  known  each  other  so  well 
long  before  Ruffo  was  born,  and  that  she  should  cry  be- 
cause she  met  you  at  the  Festa,  and  that — afterwards — 
she  should  ask  Ruffo  that." 

"Strange?" 

The  fear  that  had  been  formless  was  increasing  now 
in  Hermione,  and  surely  it  was  beginning  at  last  to 
take  a  form,  but  as  yet  only  a  form  that  was  vague  and 
shadowy. 

"Yes.  I  think  it  very  strange.  Did  you" — an  in- 
tense curiosity  was  alive  in  her  now — "did  you  know 
Ruffo 's  mother  in  Sicily?" 

"Signora,  it  does  not  matter  where  I  knew  her." 

"Why  should  she  say  that?" 

"What?" 

"'Has  Gaspare  ever  said  you  were  like  somebody?'" 

"I  have  never  said  Ruffo  was  like  anybody!"  Gaspare 
exclaimed,  with  sudden  and  intense  violence.  "May 
the  Madonna  let  me  die—may  I  die" — he  held  up  his 

520 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

arms — "may  I  die  to-morrow  if  I  have  ever  said  Ruffo 
was  like  anybody!" 

He  got  up  from  his  chair.  His  face  was  red  in  patches, 
like  the  face  of  a  man  stricken  with  fever. 

"Gaspare,  I  know  that;  but  what  could  this  woman 
have  meant?" 

"Madonna!  How  should  I  know?  Signora,  how  can 
I  tell  what  a  woman  like  that  means  ?  Such  women  have 
no  sense,  they  talk,  they  gossip — ah,  ah,  ah,  ah!" — he 
imitated  the  voice  of  a  woman  of  the  people — "they 
are  always  on  the  door-step,  their  tongues  are  always 
going.  Dio  mio!  Who  is  to  say  what  they  mean,  or 
what  nonsense  goes  through  their  heads?" 

Hermione  got  up  and  laid  her  hand  heavily  on  his 
arm. 

"I  believe  you  know  of  whom  Ruffo's  mother  spoke, 
Gaspare.  Tell  me  this — did  Ruffo's  mother  ever  know 
your  Padrone?" 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if,  for  the  first  time,  there  came  from  them  to  her  a 
look  that  had  something  in  it  of  dislike.  This  look 
struck  her  to  a  terrible  melancholy,  yet  she  met  it  firmly, 
almost  fiercely,  with  a  glance  that  fought  it,  that  strove 
to  beat  it  back.  And  with  a  steady  voice  she  repeated 
the  question  he  had  not  answered. 

"Did  Ruffo's  mother  ever  know  your  Padrone?" 

Gaspare  moved  his  lips,  passing  his  tongue  over  them. 
His  eyes  fell.  He  moved  his  arm,  trying  to  shift  it  from 
his  Padrona's  hand.  Her  fingers  closed  on  it  more 
tenaciously. 

"Gaspare,  I  order  you  to  tell  me." 

"Signora,"  he  said,  "such  things  are  not  in  my  ser- 
vice. I  am  here  to  work,  not  to  answer  questions." 

He  spoke  quietly  now,  heavily,  and  moved  his  feet  on 
the  carpet. 

"You  disobey  me?" 

521 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Signora,  I  shall  always  obey  all  your  orders  as  a 
servant." 

"And  as  a  friend,  Gaspare,  as  a  friend!  You  are  my 
friend,  aren't  you?" 

Her  voice  had  suddenly  changed,  and  in  answer  to  it 
his  face  changed.  He  looked  into  her  face,  and  his  eyes 
were  full  of  a  lustrous  softness  that  was  like  a  gentle  and 
warm  caress. 

"Signora,  you  know  what  I  am  for  you.  Then  leave 
me  alone,  Signora."  He  spoke  solemnly.  "You  ought 
to  trust  me,  Signora,  you  ought  to  trust  me." 

"I  do  trust  you.     But  you — do  you  trust  me?" 

"Si,  Signora." 

"In  everything?" 

"Signora,  I  trust  you;   I  have  always  trusted  you." 

"And  my  courage — do  you  trust  that?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"I  don't  think  you  do,  Gaspare." 

Suddenly  she  felt  that  he  was  right  not  to  trust  it. 
Again  she  felt  beset  by  fear,  and  as  if  she  had  nothing 
within  her  that  was  strong  enough  to  stand  up  in  further 
combat  against  the  assaults  of  the  world  and  of  destiny. 
The  desire  to  know  all,  to  probe  this  mystery,  abruptly 
left  her,  was  replaced  by  an  almost  frantic  wish  to  be 
always  ignorant,  if  only  that  ignorance  saved  her  from 
any  fresh  sorrow  or  terror. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "You  needn't  answer.  I 
don't  want —  What  does  it  all  matter?  It's — it's  all 
so  long  ago." 

Having  got  hold  of  that  phrase,  she  clung  to  it  as  if 
for  comfort. 

"It's  all  so  long  ago,"  she  repeated.  "Years  and 
years  ago.  We've  forgotten  it.  We've  forgotten  Sicily, 
Gaspare.  Why  should  we  think  of  it  or  trouble  about 
it  any  more?  Good-night,  Gaspare." 

She  smiled  at  him,  but  her  face  was  drawn  and  looked  old. 
522 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Buona  notte,  Signora." 

He  did  not  smile,  but  gazed  at  her  with  earnest  gentle- 
ness, and  still  with  that  lustrous  look  in  his  eyes,  full  of 
tenderness  and  protection. 

"Buon  riposo,  Signora." 

He  went  away,  surely  relieved  to  go.  At  the  door  he 
said  again: 

"Buon  riposo." 

The  door  was  shut. 

"Buon  riposo!" 

Hermione  repeated  the  words  to  herself. 

"Riposo!" 

The  very  thought  of  repose  was  like  the  most  bitter 
irony.  She  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  To-night 
there  was  no  stability  in  her.  She  was  shaken,  lacer- 
ated mentally,  by  sharply  changing  moods  that  rushed 
through  her,  one  chasing  another.  Scarcely  had  Gas- 
pare gone  before  she  longed  to  call  him  back,  to  force 
him  to  speak,  to  explain  everything  to  her.  The  fear 
that  cringed  was  suddenly  replaced  by  the  fear  that 
rushes  forward  blindly,  intent  only  on  getting  rid  of  un- 
certainty even  at  the  cost  of  death.  Soldiers  know  that 
fear.  It  has  given  men  to  bayonet  points. 

Now  it  increased  rapidly  within  Hermione.  She  was 
devoured  by  a  terror  that  was  acutely  nervous,  that 
gnawed  her  body  as  well  as  her  soul. 

Gaspare  had  known  Ruffo's  mother  in  Sicily.  And 
Maurice — he  had  known  Ruffo  's  mother.  He  must  have 
known  her.  But  when?  How  had  he  got  to  know 
her? 

Hermione  stood  still. 

"It  must  have  been  when  I  was  in  Africa!" 

A  hundred  details  of  her  husband's  conduct,  from  the 
moment  of  his  return  from  the  fair  till  the  last  kiss  he 
had  given  her  before  he  went  away  down  the  side  of 
Monte  Amato,  flashed  through  her  mind.  And  each  one 

34  523 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

seemed  to  burn  her  mind  as  a  spark,  touching  flesh, 
burns  the  flesh. 

"It  was  when  I  was  in  Africa!" 

She  went  to  the  window  and  leaned  out  into  the  night 
over  the  misty  sea.  Her  lips  moved.  She  was  repeat- 
ing to  herself  again  and  again: 

"To-morrow  I'll  go  to  Mergellina!  To-morrow  I'll 
go  to  Mergellina!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

HERMIONE  did  not  sleep  at  all  that  night.  When  the 
dawn  came  she  got  up  and  looked  out  over  the  sea.  The 
mist  had  vanished  with  the  darkness.  The  vaporous 
heat  was  replaced  by  a  delicate  freshness  that  embraced 
the  South  as  dew  embraces  a  rose.  On  the  as  yet  pale 
waters,  full  of  varying  shades  of  gray,  slate  color,  ethereal 
mauve,  very  faint  pink  and  white,  were  dotted  many 
fishing-boats.  Hermione  looked  at  them  with  her  tired 
eyes.  Ruffo's  boat  was  no  doubt  among  them.  There 
was  one  only  a  few  hundred  yards  beyond  the  rocks  from 
which  Vere  sometimes  bathed.  Perhaps  that  was  his. 

Ruffo's  boat!     Ruffo! 

She  put  her  elbows  on  the  sill  of  the  window  and  rested 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

Her  eyes  felt  very  dry,  like  sand  she  thought,  and  her 
mind  felt  dry  too,  as  if  insomnia  was  withering  it  up. 
She  opened  her  lips  to  breathe  in  the  salt  freshness  of 
the  morning. 

Upon  Anacapri  a  woolly  white  cloud  lay  lightly.  The 
distant  coast,  where  dreams  Sorrento,  was  becoming 
clearer  every  moment. 

Often  and  often  in  the  summer-time  had  Hermione 
been  invaded  by  the  radiant  cheerfulness  of  the  Bay  of 
Naples.  She  knew  no  sea  that  had  its  special  gift  of 
magical  gayety  and  stirring  hopefulness,  its  laughing 
Pagan  appeal  to  all  the  light  things  of  the  soul.  It 
woke  even  the  weary  heart  to  holiday  when,  in  the  sum- 
mer, it  glittered  and  danced  in  the  sun,  whispering  or 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

calling  with  a  tender  or  bold  vivacity  along  its  lovely 
coast. 

Out  of  this  morning  beauty,  refined  and  exquisitely 
gentle,  would  rise  presently  that  livelier  Pagan  spirit. 
It  was  not  hers.  She  was  no  Pagan.  But  she  had  loved 
it,  and  she  had,  or  thought  she  had,  been  able  to  under- 
stand it. 

All  that  was  long  ago. 

Now,  as  she  leaned  out,  her  soul  felt  old  and  haggard, 
and  the  contact  with  the  youth  and  freshness  of  the 
morning  emphasized  its  inability  to  be  influenced  any 
more  by  youthful  wonders,  by  the  graciousness  and  in- 
spiration that  are  the  gifts  of  dawn. 

Was  that  Ruffe's  boat? 

Her  mind  was  dwelling  on  Ruffo,  but  mechanically, 
heavily,  like  a  thing  with  feet  of  lead,  unable  to  lift  it- 
self once  it  had  dropped  down  upon  a  surface. 

All  the  night  her  brain  had  been  busy.  Now  it  did 
not  slumber,  but  it  brooded,  like  the  mist  that  had  so 
lately  left  the  sea.  It  brooded  upon  the  thought  of 
Ruffo. 

The  light  grew.  Over  the  mountains  the  sky  spread 
scarlet  banners.  The  sea  took,  with  a  quiet  readiness 
that  was  happily  submissive,  its  burnished  gift  of  gold. 
The  gray  was  lost  in  gold. 

And  Hermione  watched,  and  drank  in  the  delicate 
air,  but  caught  nothing  of  the  delicate  spirit  of  the 
dawn. 

Presently  the  boat  that  lay  not  far  beyond  the  rocks 
moved.  A  little  black  figure  stood  up  in  it,  swayed  to 
and  fro,  plying  tiny  oars.  The  boat  diminished.  It 
was  leaving  the  fishing-ground.  It  was  going  towards 
Mergellina. 

"To-day  I  am  going  to  Mergellina." 

Hermione  said  that  to  herself  as  she  watched  the  boat 
till  it  disappeared  in  the  shining  gold  that  was  making 

526 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

a  rapture  of  the  sea.  She  said  it,  but  the  words  seemed 
to  have  little  meaning,  the  fact  which  they  conveyed  to 
be  unimportant  to  her. 

And  she  leaned  out  of  the  window,  with  a  weary  and 
inexpressive  face,  while  the  gold  spread  ever  more  wide- 
ly over  the  sea,  and  the  Pagan  spirit  surely  stirred  from 
its  brief  repose  to  greet  the  brilliant  day. 

Presently  she  became  aware  of  a  boat  approaching  the 
island  from  the  direction  of  Mergellina.  She  saw  it  first 
when  it  was  a  long  distance  off,  and  watched  it  idly  as  it 
drew  near.  It  looked  black  against  the  gold,  till  it  was 
off  the  Villa  Pantano.  But  then,  or  soon  after,  she  saw 
that  it  was  white.  It  was  making  straight  for  the  island, 
propelled  by  vigorous  arms. 

Now  she  thought  it  looked  like  one  of  the  island  boats. 
Could  Vere  have  got  up  and  gone  out  so  early  with  Gas- 
pare ? 

She  drew  back,  lifted  her  face  from  her  hands,  and 
stood  straight  up  against  the  curtain  of  the  window.  In 
a  moment  she  heard  the  sound  of  oars  in  the  water,  and 
saw  that  the  boat  was  from  the  island,  and  that  Gaspare 
was  in  it  alone.  He  looked  up,  saw  her,  and  raised  his 
cap,  but  with  a  rather  reluctant  gesture  that  scarcely  in- 
dicated satisfaction  or  a  happy  readiness  to  greet  her. 
She  hesitated,  then  called  out  to  him. 

"Good-morning,  Gaspare." 

"Good-morning,  Signora." 

"How  early  you  are  up!" 

"And  you,  too,  Signora." 

"Couldn't  you  sleep?" 

"Signora,  I  never  want  much  sleep." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"I  have  been  for  a  row,  Signora." 

He  lifted  his  cap  again  and  began  to  row  in.  "/he 
boat  disappeared  into  the  Saint's  Pool. 

"He  has  been  to  Mergellina." 
52? 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  mind  of  Hermione  was  awake  again.  The  sight 
of  Gaspare  had  lifted  those  feet  of  lead.  Once  more  she 
was  in  flight. 

Arabs  can  often  read  the  thoughts  of  those  whom 
they  know.  In  many  Sicilians  there  is  some  Arab  blood, 
and  sometimes  Hermione  had  felt  that  Gaspare  knew 
well  intentions  of  hers  which  she  had  never  hinted  to 
him.  Now  she  was  sure  that  in  the  night  he  had  divined 
her  determination  to  go  to  Mergellina,  to  see  the  mother 
of  Ruffo,  to  ask  her  for  the  truth  which  Gaspare  had  re- 
fused to  tell.  He  had  divined  this,  and  he  had  gone  to 
Mergellina  before  her.  Why  ? 

She  was  fully  roused  now.  She  felt  like  one  in  a  con- 
flict. Was  there,  then,  to  be  a  battle  between  herself 
and  Gaspare,  a  battle  over  this  hidden  truth? 

Now  she  felt  that  it  was  vital  to  her  to  know  this 
truth.  Yet  when  her  mind,  or  her  tormented  heart, 
was  surely  on  the  verge  of  its  statement,  was — or  seemed 
to  be — about  to  say  to  her,  "Perhaps  it  is — that!"  or 
"It  is — that!"  something  within  her,  housed  deep  down 
in  her,  refused  to  listen,  refused  to  hear,  revolted  from — 
what  it  did  not  acknowledge  the  existence  of. 

Paradox  alone  could  hint  the  condition  of  her  mind 
just  then.  She  was  in  the  thrall  of  fear,  but,  had  she 
been  questioned,  would  not  have  allowed  that  she  was 
afraid. 

Afterwards  she  never  rightly  knew  what  was  the 
truth  of  her  during  this  period  of  her  life. 

There  was  to  be  a  conflict 'between  her  and  Gaspare. 

She  came  from  the  window,  took  a  bath,  and  dressed. 
When  she  had  finished  she  looked  in  the  glass.  Her  face 
was  calm,  but  set  and  grim.  She  had  not  known  she 
could  look  like  that.  She  hated  her  face,  her  expression, 
and  she  came  away  from  the  glass  feeling  almost  afraid 
of  herself. 

At  breakfast  she  and  Vere  always  met.  The  table  was 
528 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

laid  out-of-doors  in  the  little  garden  or  on  the  terrace  if 
the  weather  was  fine,  in  the  dining-room  if  it  was  bad. 
This  morning  Hermione  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  white 
cloth  near  the  fig-tree.  She  wondered  if  Vere  was  there, 
and  longed  to  plead  a  headache  and  to  have  her  coffee 
in  her  bedroom.  Nevertheless,  she  went  down  resolved 
to  govern  herself. 

In  the  garden  she  found  Giulia  smiling  and  putting 
down  the  silver  coffee-pot  in  quite  a  bower  of  roses. 
Vere  was  not  visible. 

Hermione  exchanged  a  good-morning  with  Giulia  and 
sat  down.  The  servant's  smiling  face  brought  her  a 
mingled  feeling  of  relief  and  wonder.  The  pungent 
smell  of  the  coffee,  conquering  the  soft  scent  of  the  many 
roses,  pinned  her  mind  abruptly  down  to  the  simple 
realities  and  animal  pleasures  and  necessities  of  life. 
She  made  a  strong  effort  to  be  quite  normal,  to  think  of 
the  moment,  to  live  for  it.  The  morning  was  fresh  and 
lovely;  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  the  tonic  vivacity  of  the 
air  from  the  sea,  caressed  and  quickened  her  blood. 

The  minute  garden  was  secluded.  A  world  that  seem- 
ed at  peace,  a  world  of  rocks  and  waters  far  from  the 
roar  of  traffic,  the  uneasy  hum  of  men,  lay  around 
her. 

Surely  the  moment  was  sweet,  was  peaceful.  She 
would  live  in  it. 

Vere  came  slowly  from  the  house,  and  at  once  Her- 
mione's  newly  made  and  not  yet  carried  out  resolution 
crumbled  into  dust.  She  forgot  the  sun,  the  sea,  the 
peaceful  situation  and  all  material  things.  She  was  con- 
fronted by  the  painful  drama  of  the  island  life !  Vere 
with  her  secrets,  Emile  with  his,  Gaspare  fighting  to 
keep  her,  his  Padrona,  still  in  mystery.  And  she  was 
confronted  by  her  own  passions,  those  hosts  of  armed 
men  that  have  their  dwelling  in  every  powerful  nature. 

Vere  came  up  listlessly. 

529 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Good-morning,  Madre,"  she  said. 

She  kissed  her  mother's  cheek  with  cold  lips. 

"What  lovely  roses!" 

She  smelled  them  and  sat  down  in  her  place  facing  the 
sea-wall. 

"Yes,  aren't  they?" 

"And  such  a  heavenly  morning  after  the  mist!  What 
are  we  going  to  do  to-day?" 

Hermione  gave  her  her  coffee,  and  the  little  dry  tap 
of  a  spoon  on  an  egg-shell  was  heard  in  the  stillness  of  the 
garden. 

"Well,  I — I  am  going  across  to  take  the  tram." 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Naples  again?     I'm  tired  of  Naples." 

There  was  in  her  voice  a  sound  that  suggested  rather 
hatred  than  lassitude. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  shall  go  as  far  as  Naples.  I  am 
going  to  Mergellina." 

"Oh!" 

Vere  did  not  ask  her  what  she  was  going  to  do  there. 
She  showed  no  special  interest,  no  curiosity. 

"What  will  you  do,  Vere?" 

"I  don't  know." 

She  glanced  round.  Hermione  saw  that  her  usually 
bright  eyes  were  dull  and  lack-lustre. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

She  sighed  and  began  to  eat  her  egg  slowly,  as  if  she 
had  no  appetite. 

"Did  you  sleep  well,  Vere?" 

"Not  very  well,  Madre." 

"Are  you  tired  of  the  island?" 

Vere  looked  up  as  if  startled. 

"Oh  no!  at  least" — she  paused — "No,  I  don't  believe 
I  could  ever  be  really  that.  I  love  the  island." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

530 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Sometimes — some  days  one  doesn't  know  exactly 
what  to  do." 

"Well,  but  you  always  seem  occupied."  Hermione 
spoke  with  slow  meaning,  not  unkindly,  but  with  a  sig- 
nificance she  hardly  meant  to  put  into  her  voice,  yet 
could  not  keep  out  of  it.  "You  always  manage  to  find 
something  to  do." 

Suddenly  Vere's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  bent  down 
her  head  and  went  on  eating.  Again  she  heard  Mon- 
sieur Emile's  harsh  words.  They  seemed  to  have  changed 
her  world.  She  felt  despised.  At  that  moment  she 
hated  the  Marchesino  with  a  fiery  hatred. 

Hermione  was  not  able  to  put  her  arm  round  her 
child  quickly,  to  ask  her  what  was  the  matter,  to  kiss 
her  tears  away,  or  to  bid  them  flow  quietly,  openly, 
while  Vere  rested  against  her,  secure  that  the  sorrow 
was  understood,  was  shared.  She  could  only  pretend 
not  to  see,  while  she  thought  of  the  two  shadows  in  the 
garden  last  night. 

What  could  have  happened  between  Emile  and  Vere? 
What  had  been  said,  done,  to  cause  that  cry  of  pain, 
those  tears?  Was  it  possible  that  Emile  had  let  Vere 
see  plainly  his — his — ?  But  here  Hermione  stopped. 
Not  even  in  her  own  mind,  for  herself  alone,  could  she 
summon  up  certain  spectres. 

She  went  on  eating  her  breakfast,  and  pretending  not 
to  notice  that  Vere  was  troubled.  Presently  Vere  spoke 
again. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come  with  you  to  Mergellina, 
Madre  ?"  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  rather  uneven,  almost  trembling. 

"Oh  no,  Vere!" 

Hermione  spoke  hastily,  abruptly,  strongly  conscious 
of  the  impossibility  of  taking  Vere  with  her.  Directly 
she  had  said  the  words  she  realized  that  they  must  have 
fallen  on  Vere  like  a  blow.  She  realized  this  still  more 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

when  she  looked  quickly  up  and  saw  that  Vere's  face  was 
scarlet. 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  you  with 
me,  Vere,"  she  added,  hurriedly.     "But — " 
'      "It's  all  right,  Madre.     Well,  I've  finished.     I  think 
I  shall  go  out  a  little  in  my  boat." 

She  went  away,  half  humming,  half  singing  the  tune 
of  the  Mergellina  song. 

Hermione  put  down  her  cup.  She  had  not  finished 
her  coffee,  but  she  knew  she  could  not  finish  it.  Life 
seemed  at  that  moment  utterly  intolerable  to  her.  She 
felt  desperate,  as  a  nature  does  that  is  forced  back 
upon  itself  by  circumstances,  that  is  forced  to  be,  or  to 
appear  to  be,  traitor  to  itself.  And  in  her  desperation 
action  presented  itself  to  her  as  imperatively  necessary 
— necessary  as  air  is  to  one  suffocating. 

She  got  up.  She  would  start  at  once  for  Mergellina. 
As  she  went  up-stairs  she  remembered  that  she  did  not 
know  where  Ruffo's  mother  lived,  what  she  was  like, 
even  what  her  name  was.  The  boy  had  always  spoken 
of  her  as  "Mia  Mamma."  They  dwelt  at  Mergellina. 
That  was  all  she  knew. 

She  did  not  choose  to  ask  Gaspare  anything.  She 
would  go  alone,  and  find  out  somehow  for  herself  where 
Ruffo  lived.  She  would  ask  the  fishermen.  Or  perhaps 
she  would  come  across  Ruffo.  Probably  he  had  gone 
home  by  this  time  from  the  fishing. 

Quickly,  energetically  she  got  ready. 

Just  before  she  left  her  room  she  saw  Vere  pass  slowly 
by  upon  the  sea,  rowing  a  little  way  out  alone,  as  she 
often  did  in  the  calm  summer  weather.  Vere  had  a  book, 
and  almost  directly  she  laid  the  oars  in  their  places  side 
by  side,  went  into  the  stern,  sat  down  under  the  awning, 
and  began — apparently — to  read.  Hermione  watched 
her  for  two  or  three  minutes.  She  looked  very  lonely; 
and  moved  by  an  impulse  to  try  to  erase  the  impression 

532 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

made  on  her  by  the  abrupt  exclamation  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  the  mother  leaned  out  and  hailed  the  child. 

"Good-bye,  Vere!  I  am  just  starting!"  she  cried  out, 
trying  to  make  her  voice  cheerful  and  ordinary. 

Vere  looked  up  for  a  second. 

"Good-bye!" 

She  bent  her  head  and  returned  to  her  book. 

Hermione  felt  chilled. 

She  went  down  and  met  Giulia  in  the  passage. 

"Giulia,  is  Gaspare  anywhere  about?  I  want  to  cross 
to  the  mainland.  I  am  going  to  take  the  tram." 

"Signora,  are  you  going  to  Naples?     Maria  says — 

"I  can't  do  any  commissions,  because  I  shall  probably 
not  go  beyond  Mergellina.  Find  Gaspare,  will  you?" 

Giulia  went  away  and  Hermione  descended  to  the 
Saint's  Pool.  She  waited  there  two  or  three  minutes. 
Then  Gaspare  appeared  above. 

"You  want  the  boat,  Signora ?" 

"Yes,  Gaspare." 

He  leaped  down  the  steps  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Where  do  you  want  to  go?" 

She  hesitated.  Then  she  looked  him  straight  in  the 
face  and  said: 

"To  Mergellina." 

He  met  her  eyes  without  flinching.  His  face  was  quite 
calm. 

"Shall  I  row  you  there,  Signora?" 

"I  meant  to  go  to  the  village,  and  walk  up  and  take 
the  tram." 

"As  you  like,  Signora.  But  I  can  easily  row  you 
there." 

"Aren't  you  tired  after  being  out  so  early  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"No,  Signora." 

"Did  you  go  far?" 

"Not  so  very  far,  Signora." 
533 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Hermione  hesitated.  She  knew  Gaspare  had  been  to 
Mergellina.  She  knew  he  had  been  to  see  Ruffo's  mother. 
If  that  were  so  her  journey  would  probably  be  in  vain. 
In  their  conflict  Gaspare  had  struck  the  first  blow.  Could 
anything  be  gained  by  her  going? 

Gaspare  saw,  and  perhaps  read  accurately,  her  hesita- 
tion. 

"It  will  get  very  hot  to-day,  Signora,"  he  said,  care- 
lessly. 

His  words  decided  Hermione.  If  obstacles  were  to  be 
put  in  her  way  she  would  overleap  them.  At  all  costs 
she  would  emerge  from  the  darkness  in  which  she  was 
walking.  A  heat  of  anger  rushed  over  her.  She  felt  as 
if  Gaspare,  and  perhaps  Artois,  were  treating  her  like  a 
child. 

"I  must  go  to  Mergellina,  Gaspare,"  she  said.  "And 
I  shall  go  by  tram.  Please  row  me  to  the  village." 

"Va  bene,  Signora,"  he  answered. 

He  went  to  pull  in  the  boat. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

WHEN  Hermione  got  out  of  the  boat  in  the  little 
harbor  of  the  village  on  the  mainland  Gaspare  said 
again: 

"I  could  easily  row  you  to  Mergellina,  Signora.  I  am 
not  a  bit  tired." 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  stood  with  his  hand  on  the 
prow  of  the  boat.  His  shirt-sleeves  were  rolled  up,  show- 
ing his  strong  arms.  There  was  something  brave,  some- 
thing "safe" — so  she  called  it  to  herself — in  his  whole 
appearance  which  had  always  appealed  to  her  nature. 
How  she  longed  at  that  moment  to  be  quite  at  ease  with 
him!  Why  would  he  not  trust  her  completely?  Per- 
haps in  her  glance  just  then  she  showed  her  thought,  her 
desire.  Gaspare's  eyes  fell  before  hers. 

"I  think  I'll  take  the  tram,"  she  said,  "unless — r' 

She  was  still  looking  at  him,  longing  for  him  to  speak. 
But  he  said  nothing.  At  that  moment  a  fisherman  ran 
down  the  steps  from  the  village  and  came  over  the  sand 
to  greet  them. 

"Good-bye,  Gaspare,"  she  said.  "Don't  waik  of 
course.  Giovanni  can  row  me  back." 

The  fisherman  smiled,  but  Gaspare  said: 

"I  can  come  for  you,  Signora.  You  will  not  be  >e<Jr 
long,  will  you?  You  will  be  back  for  colazione?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"I  will  come  for  you,  Signora." 

Again  she  looked  at  him,  and  felt  his  deep  loyalty  to 
her,  his  strong  and  almost  doglike  affection.  An' 

535 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ing  them,  she  was  seized  once  more  by  fear.  The  thing 
Gaspare  hid  from  her  must  be  something  terrible. 

"Thank  you,  Gaspare." 

"A  rivederci,  Signora." 

Was  there  not  a  sound  of  pleading  in  his  voice,  a  long- 
ing to  retain  her  ?  She  would  not  heed  it.  But  she  gave 
him  a  very  gentle  look  as  she  turned  to  walk  up  the 
hill. 

At  the  top,  by  the  Trattoria  del  Giardinetto,  she  had 
to  wait  for  several  minutes  before  the  tram  came.  She 
remembered  her  solitary  dinner  there  on  the  evening 
when  she  had  gone  to  the  Scoglio  di  Frisio  to  look  at  the 
visitor's  book.  She  had  felt  lonely  then  in  the  soft  light 
of  the  fading  day.  She  felt  far  more  lonely  now  in  the 
brilliant  sunshine  of  morning.  And  for  an  instant  she 
saw  herself  travelling  steadily  along  a  straight  road, 
from  which  she  could  not  diverge.  She  passed  mile- 
stone after  milestone.  And  now,  not  far  off,  she  saw  in 
the  distance  a  great  darkness  in  which  the  road  ended. 
And  the  darkness  was  the  ultimate  loneliness  which  can 
encompass  on  earth  the  human  spirit. 

The  tram -bell  sounded.  She  lifted  her  head  mechani- 
cally. A  moment  later  she  was  rushing  down  towards 
Naples.  Before  the  tram  reached  the  harbor  of  Mergel- 
lina,  on  the  hill  opposite  the  Donn'  Anna,  Hermione  got 
out.  Something  within  her  desired  delay;  there  was 
plenty  of  time.  She  would  walk  a  little  way  among  the 
lively  people  who  were  streaming  to  the  Stabilimenti  to 
have  their  morning  dip. 

In  the  tram  she  had  scarcely  thought  at  all.  She  had 
given  herself  to  the  air,  to  speed,  to  vision.  Now,  at 
once,  with  physical  action  came  an  anxiety,  a  restless- 
ness, that  seemed  to  her  very  physical  too.  Her  body 
felt  ill,  she  thought,  though  she  knew  there  was  nothing 
the  matter  with  her.  All  through  her  life  her  health 
had  been  robust.  Never  yet  had  she  completely  ' '  broken 

536 


A  SPIRIT  IN   PRISON 

down."     She  told  herself  that  her  body  was  perfectly 
well. 

But  she  was  afraid.  That  was  the  truth.  And  to 
feel  fear  was  specially  hateful  to  her,  because  she  ab- 
horred cowardice,  and  was  inclined  to  despise  all  timidity 
as  springing  from  weakness  of  character. 

She  dreaded  reaching  Mergellina.  She  dreaded  seeing 
this  woman,  Ruffo's  mother.  And  Ruffo?  Did  she 
dread  seeing  him? 

She  fought  against  her  fear.  Whatever  might  befall 
her  she  would  remain  herself,  essentially  separate  from 
all  other  beings  and  from  events,  secure  of  the  tremen- 
dous solitude  that  is  the  property  of  every  human  being 
on  earth. 

"Pain,  misery,  horror,  come  from  within,  not  from 
without."  She  said  that  to  herself  steadily.  "I  am  free 
so  long  as  I  choose,  so  long  as  I  have  the  courage  to 
choose,  to  be  free." 

And  saying  that,  and  never  once  allowing  her  mind  to 
state  frankly  any  fear,  she  came  down  to  the  harbor  of 
Mergellina. 

The  harbor  and  its  environs  looked  immensely  gay  in 
the  brilliant  sunshine.  Life  was  at  play  here,  even  at 
its  busiest.  The  very  workers  sang  as  if  their  work  were 
play.  Boats  went  in  and  out  on  the  water.  Children 
paddled  in  the  shallow  sea,  pushing  hand-nets  along  the 
sand.  From  the  rocks  boys  were  bathing.  Their  shouts 
travelled  to  the  road  where  the  fishermen  were  talking 
with  intensity,  as  they  leaned  against  the  wall  hot  with 
the  splendid  sun. 

Hermione  looked  for  Ruffo's  face  among  all  these  sun- 
browned  faces,  for  his  bright  eyes  among  all  the  spar- 
kling eyes  of  these  children  of  the  sea. 

But  she  could  not  see  him.  She  walked  along  the 
wall  slowly. 

"  Ruffo— Ruffo— Ruffo!" 

537 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

She  was  summoning  him  with  her  mind. 

Perhaps  he  was  among  those  bathing  boys.  She 
looked  across  the  harbor  to  the  rocks,  and  saw  the  brown 
body  of  one  shoot  through  the  shining  air  and  disappear 
with  a  splash  into  the  sea. 

Perhaps  that  boy  was  he — how  far  away  from  her 
loneliness,  her  sadness,  and  her  dread! 

She  began  to  despair  of  finding  him. 

"Barca!     Barca!" 

She  had  reached  the  steps  now  near  the  Savoy  Hotel. 
A  happy-looking  boatman,  with  hazel  eyes  and  a  sensi- 
tive mouth,  hailed  her  from  the  water.  It  was  Fabiano 
Lari,  to  whom  Artois  had  once  spoken,  waiting  for  cus- 
tom in  his  boat  the  Stella  del  Mare. 

Hermione  was  attracted  to  the  man,  as  Artois  had 
been,  and  she  resolved  to  find  out  from  him,  if  possible, 
where  Ruffo's  mother  lived.  She  went  down  the  steps. 
The  man  immediately  brought  his  boat  right  in. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  want  the  boat." 

Fabiano  looked  a  little  disappointed. 

"I  am  looking  for  some  one  who  lives  here,  a  Sicilian 
boy  called  Ruffo." 

"Ruffo  Scarla,  Signora?     The  Sicilian?" 

"That  must  be  he.     Do  you  know  him?" 

"Si,  Signora,  I  know  Ruffo  very  well.  He  was  here 
this  morning.  But  I  don't  know  where  he  is  now."  He 
looked  round.  "He  may  have  gone  home,  Signora." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  lives?" 

"Si,  Signora.  It  is  near  where  I  live.  It's  near  the 
Grotto." 

' '  Could  you  possibly  leave  your  boat  and  take  me  there  ?' ' 

"Si,  Signora!     A  moment,  Signora." 

Quickly  he  signed  to  a  boy  who  was  standing  close 
by  watching  them.  The  boy  ran  down  to  the  boat. 
Fabiano  spoke  to  him  in  dialect.  He  got  into  the  boat, 
while  Fabiano  jumped  ashore. 

538 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Signora,  I  am  ready.     We  go  this  way." 

They  walked  along  together. 

Fabiano  was  as  frank  and  simple  as  a  child,  and  be- 
gan at  once  to  talk.  Hermione  was  glad  of  that,  still 
more  glad  that  he  talked  of  himself,  his  family,  the  life 
and  affairs  of  a  boatman.  She  listened  sympathetically, 
occasionally  putting  in  a  word,  till  suddenly  Fabiano 
said: 

"Antonio  Bernari  will  be  out  to-day.  I  suppose  you 
know  that,  Signora?" 

"Antonio  Bernari!  Who  is  he?  I  never  heard  of 
him." 

Fabiano  looked  surprised. 

"But  he  is  Ruffo's  Patrigno.  He  is  the  husband  of 
Maddalena." 

Hermione  stood  still  on  the  pavement.  She  did  not 
know  why  for  a  moment.  Her  mind  seemed  to  need  a 
motionless  body  in  which  to  work.  It  was  surely  grop- 
ing after  something,  eagerly,  feverishly,  yet  blindly. 

Fabiano  paused  beside  her. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  staring  at  her  in  surprise,  "are 
you  tired?  Are  you  not  well?" 

"I'm  quite  well.  But  wait  a  minute.  Yes,  I  do  want 
to  rest  for  a  minute." 

She  dared  not  move  lest  she  should  interfere  with  that 
mental  search.  Fabiano 's  words  had  sent  her  mind 
sharply  to  Sicily. 

Maddalena! 

She  was  sure  she  had  known,  or  heard  of,  some  girl 
in  Sicily  called  Maddalena,  some  girl  or  some  woman. 
She  thought  of  the  servant  in  the  Casa  del  Prete,  Lucrezia. 
Had  she  any  sister,  any  relation  called  Maddalena  ?  Or 
had  Gaspare — ? 

Suddenly  Hermione  seemed  to  be  on  the  little  terrace 
above  the  ravine  with  Maurice  and  Artois.  She  seemed 
to  feel  the  heat  of  noon  in  summer.  Gaspare  was  there, 
«  539 


too.  She  saw  his  sullen  face.  She  saw  him  looking  ugly. 
She  heard  him  say: 

"Salvatore  and  Maddalena,  Signora." 

Why  had  he  said  that  ?     In  answer  to  what  question  ? 

And  then,  in  a  flash,  she  remembered  everything.  It 
was  she  who  had  spoken  first.  She  had  asked  him  who 
lived  in  the  House  of  the  Sirens. 

"Salvatore  and  Maddalena." 

And  afterwards — Maurice  had  said  something.  Her 
mind  went  in  search,  seized  its  prey. 

"They're  quite  friends  of  ours.  We  saw  them  at  the 
fair  only  yesterday." 

Maurice  had  said  that.  She  could  hear  his  voice  say- 
ing it. 

"I'm  rested  now." 

She  was  speaking  to  Fabiano.  They  were  walking  on 
again  among  the  chattering  people.  They  had  come  to 
the  wooden  station  where  the  tram-lines  converge. 

"Is  it  this  way?" 

"Si,  Signora,  quite  near  the  Grotto.  Take  care, 
Signora." 

"  It's  all  right.     Thank  you." 

They  had  crossed  now  and  were  walking  up  the  street 
that  leads  directly  to  the  tunnel,  whose  mouth  confronted 
them  in  the  distance.  Hermione  felt  as  if  they  were 
going  to  enter  it,  were  going  to  walk  down  it  to  that  great 
darkness  which  seemed  to  wait  for  her,  to  beckon  her. 
But  presently  Fabiano  turned  to  the  right,  and  they 
came  into  a  street  leading  up  the  hill,  and  stopped  almost 
immediately  before  a  tall  house. 

"Antonio  and  Maddalena  live  here,  Signora." 

"And  Ruffo,"  she  said,  as  if  correcting  him. 

"Ruffo!     Si,  Signora,  of  course." 

Hermione  looked  at  the  house.  It  was  evidently  let 
out  in  rooms  to  people  who  were  comparatively  poor; 
not  very  poor,  not  in  any  destitution,  but  who  made 

540 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

a  modest  livelihood,  and  could  pay  their  fourteen  or 
fifteen  lire  a  month  for  a  lodging.  She  divined  by  its 
aspect  that  every  room  was  occupied.  For  the  building 
teemed  with  life,  and  echoed  with  the  sound  of  calling, 
or  screaming,  voices.  The  inhabitants  were  surely  all 
of  them  in  a  flurry  of  furious  activity.  Children  were 
playing  before  and  upon  the  door-step,  which  was  flanked 
by  an  open  shop,  whose  interior  revealed  with  a  blatant 
sincerity  a  rummage  of  mysterious  edibles — fruit,  vege- 
tables, strings  of  strange  objects  that  looked  poisonous, 
fungi,  and  other  delights.  Above,  from  several  windows, 
women  leaned  out,  talking  violently  to  one  another.  Two 
were  holding  babies,  who  testified  their  new-born  sense 
of  life  by  screaming  shrilly.  Across  other  window-spaces 
heads  passed  to  and  fro,  denoting  the  continuous  move- 
ment of  those  within.  People  in  the  street  called  to  peo- 
ple in  the  house,  and  the  latter  shouted  in  answer,  with 
that  absolute  lack  of  self-consciousness  and  disregard  of 
the  opinions  of  others  which  is  the  hall-mark  of  the  true 
Neapolitan.  From  the  corner  came  the  rumble  and  the 
bell  notes  of  the  trams  going  to  and  coming  from  the 
tunnel  that  leads  to  Fuorigrotta.  And  from  every  di- 
rection rose  the  vehement  street  calls  of  ambulant  ven- 
ders of  the  necessaries  of  Neapolitan  life. 

"Ruffo  lives  here!"  said  Hermione. 

She  could  hardly  believe  it.  So  unsuitable  seemed 
such  a  dwelling  to  that  bright-eyed  child  of  the  sea, 
whom  she  had  always  seen  surrounded  by  the  wide  airs 
and  the  waters. 

"Si,  Signora.  They  are  on  the  third  floor.  Shall  I 
take  you  up?" 

Hermione  hesitated.     Should  she  go  up  alone  ? 

"Please  show  me  the  way,"  she  said,  deciding. 

Fabiano  preceded  her  up  a  dirty  stone  staircase,  dark 
and  full  of  noises,  till  they  came  to  the  third  floor. 

"It  is  here,  Signora!" 


A    SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

He  knocked  loudly  on  a  door.  It  was  opened  very 
quickly,  as  if  by  some  one  who  was  on  the  watch,  ex- 
pectant of  an  arrival. 

"Chi  e?"  cried  a  female  voice. 

And,  almost  simultaneously,  a  woman  appeared  with 
eyes  that  stared  in  inquiry. 

By  these  eyes,  their  shape,  and  the  long,  level  brows 
above  them,  Hermione  knew  that  this  woman  must  be 
Ruffo's  mother. 

"Good-morning,  Donna  Maddalena,"  said  Fabiano, 
heartily. 

"Good-morning,"  said  the  woman,  directing  her  eyes 
with  a  strange  and  pertinacious  scrutiny  to  Hermione, 
who  stood  behind  him.  "I  thought  perhaps  it  was — " 

She  stopped.  Behind,  in  the  doorway,  appeared  the 
head  of  a  young  woman,  covered  with  blue-black  hair, 
then  the  questioning  face  of  an  old  woman  with  a  skin 
like  yellow  parchment. 

"Don  Antonio?" 

She  nodded,  keeping  her  long,  Arab  eyes  on  Hermione. 

"No.     Are  you  expecting  him  so  early?" 

"He  may  come  at  any  time.     Chi  lo  sa?" 

She  shrugged  her  broad,  graceless  shoulders. 

"It  isn't  he!  It  isn't  Antonio!"  bleated  a  pale  and 
disappointed  voice,  with  a  peculiarly  irritating  timbre. 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  old  woman,  who  now  darted 
over  Maddalena  Bernari's  shoulder  a  hostile  glance  at 
Hermione. 

"Madonna  Santissima!"  baaed  the  woman  with  the 
blue-black  hair.  "Perhaps  he  will  not  be  let  out  to- 
day!" 

The  old  woman  began  to  cry  feebly,  yet  angrily. 

"Courage,  Madre  Teresa!"  said  Fabiano.  "Antonio 
will  be  here  to-day  for  a  certainty.  Every  one  knows  it. 
His  friends" — he  raised  a  big  brown  hand  significantly — 
"his  friends  have  managed  well  for  him." 

542 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Si!  si!  It  is  true!"  said  the  black-haired  woman, 
nodding  her  large  head,  and  gesticulating  towards  Madre 
Teresa.  "He  will  be  here  to-day.  Antonio  will  be  here." 

They  all  stared  at  Hermione,  suddenly  forgetting  their 
personal  and  private  affairs. 

"Donna  Maddalena,"  said  Fabiano,  "here  is  a  signora 
who  knows  Ruffo.  I  met  her  at  the  Mergellina,  and  she 
asked  me  to  show  her  the  way  here." 

"Ruffo  is  out,"  said  Maddalena,  always  keeping  her 
eyes  on  Hermione. 

"May  I  come  in  and  speak  to  you?"  said  Hermione. 

Maddalena  looked  doubtful,  yet  curious. 

"My  son  is  in  the  sea,  Signora.  He  is  bathing  at  the 
Marina." 

Hermione  thought  of  the  brown  body  she  had  seen 
falling  through  the  shining  air,  of  the  gay  splash  as  it 
entered  the  water. 

' '  I  know  your  son  so  well  that  I  should  like  to  know 
his  mother,"  she  said. 

Fabiano  by  this  time  had  moved  aside,  and  the  two 
women  were  confronting  each  other  in  the  doorway. 
Behind  Maddalena  the  two  other  women  stared  and 
listened  with  all  their  might,  giving  their  whole  atten- 
tion to  this  unexpected  scene. 

"Are  you  the  Signora  of  the  island?"  asked  Madda- 
lena. 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Let  the  Signora  in,  Donna  Maddalena,"  said  Fabiano. 
"She  is  tired  and  wants  to  rest." 

Without  saying  anything  Maddalena  moved  her  broad 
body  from  the  doorway,  leaving  enough  space  for  Her- 
mione to  enter. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hermione  to  Fabiano,  giving  him 
a  couple  of  lire. 

"Grazie,  Signora.  I  will  wait  down-stairs  to  take  you 
back." 

543 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  went  off  before  she  had  time  to  tell  him  that  was 
not  necessary. 

Hermione  walked  into  Ruffo's  home. 

There  were  two  rooms,  one  opening  into  the  other. 
The  latter  was  a  kitchen,  the  former  the  sleeping-room. 
Hermione  looked  quickly  round  it,  and  her  eyes  fell  at 
once  upon  a  large  green  parrot,  which  was  sitting  at  the 
end  of  the  board  on  which,  supported  by  trestles  of  iron, 
the  huge  bed  of  Maddalena  and  her  husband  was  laid. 
At  present  this  bed  was  rolled  up,  and  in  consequence 
towered  to  a  considerable  height.  The  parrot  looked 
at  Hermione  coldly,  with  round,  observant  eyes  whose 
pupils  kept  contracting  and  expanding  with  a  monoto- 
nous regularity.  She  felt  as  if  it  had  a  soul  that  was 
frigidly  ironic.  Its  pertinacious  glance  chilled  and  re- 
pelled her,  and  she  fancied  it  was  reflected  in  the  faces 
of  the  women  round  her. 

"Can  I  speak  to  you  alone  for  a  few  minutes?"  she 
asked  Maddalena. 

Maddalena  turned  to  the  two  women  and  spoke  to 
them  loudly  in  dialect.  They  replied.  The  old  woman 
spoke  at  great  length.  She  seemed  always  angry  and 
always  upon  the  verge  of  tears.  Over  her  shoulders  she 
wore  a  black  shawl,  and  as  she  talked  she  kept  fidgeting 
with  it,  pulling  it  first  to  one  side,  then  to  the  other,  or 
dragging  at  it  with  her  thin  and  crooked  yellow  fingers. 
The  parrot  watched  her  steadily.  Her  hideous  voice 
played  upon  Hermione 's  nerves  till  they  felt  raw.  At 
length,  looking  back,  as  she  walked,  with  bloodshot  eyes, 
she  went  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  the  young  woman. 
They  began  talking  together  in  sibilant  whispers,  like 
people  conspiring. 

After  a  moment  of  apparent  hesitation  Maddalena 
gave  her  visitor  a  chair. 

"Thank  you,"  Hermione  said,  taking  it. 

She  looked  round  the  room  again.     It  was  clean  and 
544 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

well  kept,  but  humbly  furnished.  Ruffo's  bed  was  rolled 
up  in  a  corner.  On  the  walls  were  some  shields  of  post- 
cards and  photographs,  such  as  the  poor  Italians  love, 
deftly  enough  arranged  and  fastened  together  by  some 
mysterious  not  apparent  means.  Many  of  the  post- 
cards were  American.  Near  two  small  flags,  American 
and  Italian,  fastened  crosswise  above  the  head  of  the 
big  bed,  was  a  portrait  of  Maria  Addolorata,  under  which 
burned  a  tiny  light.  A  palm,  blessed,  and  fashioned  like 
a  dagger  with  a  cross  for  the  hilt,  was  nailed  above  it, 
with  a  coral  charm  to  protect  the  household  against  the 
evil  eye.  And  a  little  to  the  right  of  it  was  a  small 
object  which  Hermione  saw  and  wondered  at  without 
understanding  why  it  should  be  there,  or  what  was  its 
use — a  Fattura  delta  morte  (death-charm),  in  the  form 
of  a  green  lemon  pierced  with  many  nails.  This  hung  by 
a  bit  of  string  to  a  nail  projecting  from  the  wall. 

From  the  death-charm  Hermione  turned  her  eyes  to 
Maddalena. 

She  saw  a  woman  who  was  surely  not  very  much 
younger  than  herself,  with  a  broad  and  spreading  figure, 
wide  hips,  plump  though  small-boned  arms,  heavy  shoul- 
ders. The  face — that,  perhaps — yes,  that,  certainly — 
must  have  been  once  pretty.  Very  pretty  ?  Hermione 
looked  searchingly  at  it  until  she  saw  Maddalena's  eyes 
drop  before  hers  suddenly,  as  if  embarrassed.  She  must 
say  something.  But  now  that  she  was  here  she  felt  a 
difficulty  in  opening  a  conversation,  an  intense  reluctance 
to  speak  to  this  woman  into  whose  house  she  had  almost 
forced  her  way.  With  the  son  she  was  strangely  inti- 
mate. From  the  mother  she  felt  separated  by  a  gulf. 

And  that  fear  of  hers  ? 

She  looked  again  round  the  room.  Had  that  fear  in- 
creased or  diminished  ?  Her  eyes  fell  on  Maria  Addolo- 
rata, then  on  the  Fattura  delta  morte.  She  did  not 
know  why,  but  she  was  moved  to  speak  about  it. 

545 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"You  have  nice  rooms  here,"  she  said. 

"Si,  Signora." 

Maddalena  had  rather  a  harsh  voice.  She  spoke  po- 
litely, but  inexpressively. 

"What  a  curious  thing  that  is  on  the  wall!" 

"Signora?" 

"It's  a  lemon,  isn't  it?     With  nails  stuck  through  it ?" 

Maddalena's  broad  face  grew  a  dusky  red. 

"That  is  nothing,  Signora!"  she  said,  hastily. 

She  looked  greatly  disturbed,  suddenly  went  over  to 
the  bed,  unhooked  the  string  from  the  nail,  and  put  the 
death-charm  into  her  pocket.  As  she  came  back  she 
looked  at  Hermione  with  defiance  in  her  eyes. 

The  gulf  between  them  had  widened. 

From  the  kitchen  came  the  persistent  sound  of  whis- 
pering voices.  The  green  parrot  turned  sideways  on 
the  board  beyond  the  pile  of  rolled  -  up  mattresses, 
and  looked,  with  one  round  eye,  steadfastly  at  Her- 
mione. 

An  almost  intolerable  sensation  of  desertion  swept 
over  her.  She  felt  as  if  every  one  hated  her. 

"Would  you  mind  shutting  that  door?"  she  said  to 
Maddalena,  pointing  towards  the  kitchen. 

The  sound  of  whispers  ceased.  The  women  within 
were  listening. 

"Signora,  we  always  keep  it  open." 

"  But  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  that  I  wish  to  say 
in  private." 

"Si!" 

The  exclamation  was  suspicious.  The  voice  sounded 
harsher  than  before.  In  the  kitchen  the  silence  seemed 
to  increase,  to  thrill  with  anxious  curiosity. 

"Please  shut  that  door." 

It  was  like  an  order.  Maddalena  obeyed  it,  despite 
a  cataract  of  words  from  the  old  woman  that  voiced 
indignant  protest. 

546 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"And  do  sit  down,  won't  you?  I  don't  like  to  sit 
while  you  are  standing." 

"Signora,  I — 

"Please  do  sit  down." 

Hermione's  voice  began  to  show  her  acute  nervous 
agitation.  Maddalena  stared,  then  took  another  chair 
from  its  place  against  the  wall,  and  sat  down  at  some 
distance  from  Hermione.  She  folded  her  plump  hands 
in  her  lap.  Seated,  she  looked  bigger,  more  graceless, 
than  before.  But  Hermione  saw  that  she  was  not  real- 
ly middle-aged.  Hard  life  and  trouble  doubtless  had 
combined  to  destroy  her  youth  and  beauty  early,  to 
coarsen  the  outlines,  to  plant  the  many  wrinkles  that 
spread  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes  and  lips  to 
her  temples  and  her  heavy,  dusky  cheeks.  She  was 
now  a  typical  woman  of  the  people.  Hermione 
tried  to  see  her  as  a  girl,  long  ago  —  years  and  years 
ago. 

"I  know  your  son  Ruffo  very  well,"  she  said. 

Maddalena's  face  softened. 

"Si,  Signora.     He  has  told  me  of  you." 

Suddenly  she  seemed  to  recollect  something. 

"  I  have  never —  Signora,  thank  you  for  the  money," 
she  said. 

The  harshness  was  withdrawn  from  her  voice  as  she 
spoke  now,  and  in  her  abrupt  gentleness  she  looked  much 
younger  than  before.  Hermione  divined  in  that  moment 
her  vanished  beauty.  It  seemed  suddenly  to  be  un- 
veiled by  her  tenderness. 

"I  heard  you  were  in  trouble." 

"Si,  Signora — great  trouble." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  her  mouth  worked. 
As  if  moved  by  an  uncontrollable  impulse,  she  thrust 
one  hand  into  her  dress,  drew  out  the  death-charm,  and 
contemplated  it,  at  the  same  time  muttering  some  words 
that  Hermione  did  not  understand.  Her  face  became 

547 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

full  of  hatred.     Holding  up  the  charm,  and  lifting  her 
head,  she  exclaimed: 

"Those  who  bring  trouble  shall  have  trouble!" 

While  she  spoke  she  looked  straight  before  her,  and 
her  voice  became  harsh  again,  seemed  to  proclaim  to 
the  world  unalterable  destiny. 

"Yes,"  said  Hermione,  in  a  low  voice. 

Maddalena  hid  the  death-charm  once  more  with  a 
movement  that  was  surreptitious. 

"Yes,"  Hermione  said  again,  gazing  into  Maddalena's 
still  beautiful  eyes.  "And  you  have  trouble!" 

Maddalena  looked  afraid,  like  an  ignorant  person  whose 
tragic  superstition  is  proved  true  by  an  assailing  fact. 

"Signora!" 

"You  have  trouble  in  your  house.  Have  you  ever 
brought  trouble  to  any  one?  Have  you?" 

Maddalena  stared  at  her  with  dilated  eyes,  but  made 
no  answer. 

"Tell  me  something."  Hermione  leaned  forward. 
"You  know  my  servant,  Gaspare?" 

Maddalena  was  silent. 

"You  know  Gaspare.     Did  you  know  him  in  Sicily?" 

"Sicily?"  Her  face  and  her  voice  had  become  stupid. 
"Sicily?"  she  repeated. 

The  parrot  shifted  on  the  board,  lifted  its  left  claw, 
and  craned  its  head  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  two 
women.  The  tram-bell  sounded  its  reiterated  appeal. 

"Yes,  in  Sicily.     You  are  a  Sicilian?" 

"Who  says  so?" 

"Your  son  is  a  Sicilian.  At  the  port  they  call  him 
'II  Siciliano.'" 

"Do  they?" 

Her  intellect  seemed  to  be  collapsing.  She  looked  al- 
most bovine. 

Hermione's  excitement  began  to  be  complicated  by  a 
feeling  of  hot  anger. 

548 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"But  don't  you  know  it?     You  must  know  it!" 

The  parrot  shuffled  slowly  along  the  board,  coming  near- 
er to  them,  and  bowing  its  head  obsequiously.  Hermione 
could  not  help  watching  its  movements  with  a  strained 
attention.  Its  presence  distracted  her.  She  had  a  long- 
ing to  take  it  up  and  wring  its  neck.  Yet  she  loved  birds. 

"You  must  know  it!"  she  repeated,  no  longer  looking 
at  Maddalena. 

"Si?" 

All  ignorance  and  all  stupidity  were  surely  enshrined 
in  that  word  thus  said. 

"Where  did  you  know  Gaspare?" 

"Who  says  I  know  Gaspare?" 

The  way  in  which  she  pronounced  his  name  revealed 
to  Hermione  a  former  intimacy  between  them. 

"Ruffo  says  so." 

The  parrot  was  quite  at  the  edge  of  the  board  now, 
listening  apparently  with  cold  intensity  to  every  word 
that  was  being  said.  And  Hermione  felt  that  behind 
the  kitchen  door  the  two  women  were  straining  their 
ears  to  catch  the  conversation.  Was  the  whole  world 
listening?  Was  the  whole  world  coldly,  cruelly  intent 
upon  her  painful  effort  to  come  out  of  darkness  into — 
perhaps  a  greater  darkness? 

"Ruffo  says  so.     Ruffo  told  me  so." 

"Boys  say  anything." 

"Do  you  mean  it  is  not  true  ?" 

Maddalena's  face  was  now  almost  devoid  of  expression. 
She  had  set  her  knees  wide  apart  and  planted  her  hands 
on  them. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  repeated  Hermione. 

"Boys—" 

"I  know  it  is  true.  You  knew  Gaspare  in  Sicily. 
You  come  from  Marechiaro." 

At  the  mention  of  the  last  word  light  broke  into  Mad- 
dalena's face. 

549 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"You  are  from  Marechiaro.  Have  you  ever  seen  me 
before?  Do  you  remember  me?" 

Maddalena  shook  her  head. 

"And  I — I  don't  remember  you.  But  you  are  from 
Marechiaro.  You  must  be." 

Maddalena  shook  her  head  again. 

"You  are  not?" 

Hermione  looked  into  the  long  Arab  eyes,  searching 
for  a  lie.  She  met  a  gaze  that  was  steady  but  dull,  al- 
most like  that  of  a  sulky  child,  and  for  a  moment  she 
felt  as  if  this  woman  was  only  a  great  child,  heavy, 
ignorant,  but  solemnly  determined,  a  child  that  had 
learned  its  lesson  and  was  bent  on  repeating  it  word  for 
word. 

"Did  Gaspare  come  here  early  this  morning  to  see 
you?"  she  asked,  with  sudden  vehemence. 

Maddalena  was  obviously  startled.     Her  face  flushed. 

"Why  should  he  come?"  she  said,  almost  angrily. 

"That  is  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

Maddalena  was  silent.  She  shifted  uneasily  in  her 
chair,  which  creaked  under  her  weight,  and  twisted  her 
full  lips  sideways.  Her  whole  body  looked  half-sleepily 
apprehensive.  The  parrot  watched  her  with  supreme 
attention.  Suddenly  Hermione  felt  that  she  could  no 
longer  bear  this  struggle,  that  she  could  no  longer  con- 
tinue in  darkness,  that  she  must  have  full  light.  The 
contemplation  of  this  stolid  ignorance — that  yet  knew 
how  much? — confronting  her  like  a  featureless  wall  al- 
most maddened  her. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  said.  "What  have  you  had  to 
do  with  my  life  ?" 

Maddalena  looked  at  her  and  looked  away,  bending 
her  head  sideways  till  her  plump  neck  was  like  a  thing 
deformed. 

"What  have  you  had  to  do  with  my  life  ?  What  have 
you  to  do  with  it  now ?  I  want  to  know!"  She  stood  up. 

55° 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  must  know.  You  must  tell  me!  Do  you  hear?" 
She  bent  down.  She  was  standing  almost  over  Mad- 
dalena.  "You  must  tell  me!" 

There  was  again  a  silence  through  which  presently 
the  tram-bell  sounded.  Maddalena's  face  had  become 
heavily  expressionless,  almost  like  a  face  of  stone.  And 
Hermione,  looking  down  at  this  face,  felt  a  moment  of 
impotent  despair  that  was  succeeded  by  a  fierce,  ener- 
getic impulse. 

"Then,"  she  said— "then— I'll  tell  you!" 

Maddalena  looked  up. 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  you." 

Hermione  paused.  She  had  begun  to  tremble.  She 
put  one  hand  down  to  the  back  of  the  chair,  grasping 
it  tightly  as  if  to  steady  herself. 

"I'll  tell  you." 

What  ?     What  was  she  going  to  tell  ? 

That  first  evening  in  Sicily — just  before  they  went  in 
to  bed  —  Maurice  had  looked  down  over  the  terrace 
wall  to  the  sea.  He  had  seen  a  light — far  down  by 
the  sea. 

It  was  the  light  in  the  House  of  the  Sirens. 

"You  once  lived  in  Sicily.  You  once  lived  in  the  Casa 
delle  Sirene,  beyond  the  old  wall,  beyond  the  inlet.  You 
were  there  when  we  were  in  Sicily,  when  Gaspare  was 
with  us  as  our  servant." 

Maddalena's  lips  parted.  Her  mouth  began  to  gape. 
It  was  obvious  that  she  was  afraid. 

"You — you  knew  Gaspare.  You  knew — you  knew 
my  husband,  the  Signore  of  the  Casa  del  Prete  on  Monte 
Amato.  You  knew  him.  Do  you  remember?" 

Maddalena  only  stared  up  at  her  with  a  sort  of  heavy 
apprehension,  sitting  widely  in  her  chair,  with  her  feet 
apart  and  her  hands  always  resting  on  her  knees. 

"It  was  in  the  summer-time —  She  was  again  in 
Sicily.  She  was  tracing  out  a  story.  It  was  almost  as 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

if  she  saw  words  and  read  them  from  a  book.  "There 
were  no  forestieri  in  Sicily.  They  had  all  gone.  Only 
we  were  there —  An  expression  so  faint  that  it  was 
like  a  fleeting  shadow  passed  over  Maddalena's  face,  the 
fleeting  shadow  of  something  that  denied.  "Ah,  yes! 
Till  I  went  away,  you  mean!  I  went  to  Africa.  Did 
you  know  it  then  ?  But  before  I  went — before — "  She 
was  thinking,  she  was  burrowing  deep  down  into  the 
past,  stirring  the  heap  of  memories  that  lay  like  drifted 
leaves.  "They  used  to  go — at  least  they  went  once — 
down  to  the  sea.  One  night  they  went  to  the  fishing. 
And  they  slept  out  all  night.  They  slept  in  the  caves. 
Ah,  you  know  that?  You  remember  that  night!" 

The  trembling  that  shook  her  body  was  reflected  in 
her  voice,  which  became  tremulous.  She  heard  the  tram- 
bell  ringing.  She  saw  the  green  parrot  listening  on  its 
board.  And  yet  she  was  in  Sicily,  and  saw  the  line  of 
the  coast  between  Messina  and  Cattaro,  the  Isle  of  the 
Sirens,  the  lakelike  sea  of  the  inlet  between  it  and  the 
shore. 

"I  see  that  you  remember  it.  You  saw  them  there. 
They — they  didn't  tell  me!" 

As  she  said  the  last  words  she  felt  that  she  was  enter- 
ing the  great  darkness.  Maurice  and  Gaspare — she  had 
trusted  them  with  all  her  nature.  And  they — had  they 
failed  her?  Was  that  possible? 

"They  didn't  tell  me,"  she  repeated,  piteously,  speak- 
ing now  only  for  herself  and  to  her  own  soul.  "They 
didn't  tell  me!" 

Maddalena  shook  her  head  like  one  in  sympathy  or 
agreement.  But  Hermione  did  not  see  the  movement. 
She  no  longer  saw  Maddalena.  She  saw  only  herself, 
and  those  two,  whom  she  had  trusted  so  completely,  and 
—who  had  not  told  her. 

What  had  they  not  told  her  ? 

And  then  she  was  in  Africa,  beside  the  bed  of  Artois, 
552 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ministering  to  him  in  the  torrid  heat,  driving  away  the 
flies  from  his  white  face. 

What  had  been  done  in  the  Garden  of  Paradise  while 
she  had  been  in  exile  ? 

She  turned  suddenly  sick.  Her  body  felt  ashamed, 
denied.  A  shutter  seemed  to  be  sharply  drawn  across 
her  eyes,  blotting  out  life.  Her  head  was  full  of  sea- 
like  noises. 

Presently,  from  among  these  noises,  one  detached  it- 
self, pushed  itself,  as  it  were,  forward  to  attract  forcibly 
her  attention — the  sound  of  a  boy's  voice. 

' '  Signora !     Signora ! ' ' 

"Signora!" 

A  hand  touched  her,  gripped  her. 

"Signora!" 

The  shutter  was  sharply  drawn  back  from  her  eyes, 
and  she  saw  Ruffo.  He  stood  before  her,  gazing  at  her. 
His  hair,  wet  from  the  sea,  was  plastered  down  upon 
his  brown  forehead — as  his  hair  had  been  when,  in  the 
night,  they  drew  him  from  the  sea. 

She  saw  Ruffo  in  that  moment  as  if  for  the  first  time. 

And  she  knew.     Ruffo  had  told  her. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

HERMIONE  was  outside  in  the  street,  hearing  the  cries 
of  the  ambulant  sellers,  the  calls  of  women  and  children, 
the  tinkling  bells  and  the  rumble  of  the  trams,  and  the 
voice  of  Fabiano  Lari  speaking — was  it  to  her? 

"Signora,  did  you  see  him?" 

"Yes." 

"He  is  glad  to  be  out  of  prison.  He  is  gay,  but  he 
looks  wicked." 

She  did  not  understand  what  he  meant.  She  walked 
on  and  came  into  the  road  that  leads  to  the  tunnel.  She 
turned  mechanically  towards  the  tunnel,  drawn  by  its 
darkness. 

"But,  Signora,  this  is  not  the  way!  This  is  the  way 
to  Fuorigrotta!" 

"Oh!" 

She  went  towards  the  sea.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
green  parrot  expanding  and  contracting  the  pupils  of 
its  round,  ironic  eyes. 

"Was  Maddalena  'pleased  to  see  him?  Was  Donna 
Teresa  pleased?" 

Hermione  stood  still. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Signora!  About  Antonio  Bernari,  who  has  just 
come  home  from  prison!  Didn't  you  see  him?  But  you 
were  there — in  the  house!" 

"Oh — yes,  I  saw  him.     A  rivederci!" 

"Ma—" 

"A  rivederci!" 

554 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  felt  in  her  purse,  found  a  coin,  and  gave  it  to  him. 
Then  she  walked  on.  She  did  not  see  him  any  more. 
She  did  not  know  what  became  of  him. 

Of  course  she  had  seen  the  return  of  Antonio  Bernari. 
She  remembered  now.  As  Ruffo  stood  before  her  with 
the  wet  hair  on  his  forehead  there  had  come  a  shrill  cry 
from  the  old  woman  in  the  kitchen:  a  cry  that  was 
hideous  and  yet  almost  beautiful,  so  full  it  was  of  joy. 
Then  from  the  kitchen  the  two  women  had  rushed  in, 
gesticulating,  ejaculating,  their  faces  convulsed  with  ex- 
citement. They  had  seized  Maddalena,  Ruffo.  One  of 
them — the  old  woman,  she  thought — had  even  clutched 
at  Hermione's  arm.  The  room  had  been  full  of  cries. 

"Ecco!     Antonio!" 

"Antonio  is  coming!" 

"I  have  seen  Antonio!" 

"He  is  pale!     He  is  white  like  death!" 

"Mamma  mia!     But  he  is  thin!" 

"Ecco!  Ecco!  He  comes!  Here  he  is!  Here  is  An- 
tonio!" 

And  then  the  door  had  been  opened,  and  on  the  sill  a 
big,  broad-shouldered  man  had  appeared,  followed  by 
several  other  evil-looking  though  smiling  men.  And  all 
the  women  had  hurried  to  them.  There  had  been  shrill 
cries,  a  babel  of  voices,  a  noise  of  kisses. 

And  Ruffo !    Where  had  he  been  ?    What  had  he  done  ? 

Hermione  only  knew  that  she  had  heard  a  rough  voice 
saying: 

"Sangue  del  Diavolo!  Let  me  alone!  Give  me  a 
glass  of  wine!  Basta!  basta!" 

And  then  she  went  out  in  the  street,  thinking  of  the 
green  parrot  and  hearing  the  cries  of  the  sellers,  the 
tram-bells,  and  Fabiano's  questioning  voice. 

Now  she  continued  her  walk  towards  the  harbor  of 
Mergellina  alone.  The  thought  of  the  green  parrot  ob- 
sessed her  mind. 

36  555 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  saw  it  before  her  on  its  board,  with  the  rolled-up 
bed  towering  behind  it.  Now  it  was  motionless — only 
the  pupils  of  its  eyes  moved.  Now  it  lifted  its  claw, 
bowed  its  head,  shuffled  along  the  board  to  hear  their 
conversation  better. 

She  saw  it  with-  extreme  distinctness,  and  now  she 
saw  also  on  the  wall  of  the  room  near  it  the  "Fattura 
della  Morte  " — the  green  lemon  with  the  nails  stuck 
through  it,  like  nails  driven  into  a  cross. 

Vaguely  the  word  "crucifixion"  went  through  her 
mind.  Many  people,  many  women,  had  surely  been 
crucified  since  the  greatest  tragedy  the  world  had  ever 
known.  What  had  they  felt,  they  who  were  only  hu- 
man, they  who  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  Father, 
who  could — some  of  them,  perhaps— only  hope  that  there 
was  a  Father  ?  What  had  they  felt  ?  Perhaps  scarcely 
anything.  Perhaps  merely  a  sensation  of  numbness,  as 
if  their  whole  bodies,  and  their  minds,  too,  were  under 
the  influence  of  a  great  injection  of  cocaine.  Her 
thoughts  again  returned  to  the  parrot.  She  wondered 
where  it  had  been  bought,  whether  it  had  come  with 
Antonio  from  America. 

Presently  she  reached  the  tramway  station  and  stood 
still.  She  had  to  go  back  to  the  "Trattoria  del  Giar- 
dinetto."  She  must  take  a  tram  here,  one  of  those  on 
which  was  written  in  big  letters,  "Capo  di  Posilipo." 
No,  not  that!  That  did  not  go  far  enough.  The  other 
one — what  was  written  upon  it?  Something — "Sette 
Settembre."  She  looked  for  the  words  "  Sette  Settembre." 

Tram  after  tram  came  up,  paused,  passed  on.  But 
she  did  not  see  those  words  on  any  of  them.  She  be- 
gan to  think  of  the  sea,  of  the  brown  body  of  the  bathing 
boy  which  she  had  seen  shoot  through  the  air  and  dis- 
appear into  the  shining  water  before  she  had  gone  to 
that  house  where  the  green  parrot  was.  She  would  go 
down  to  the  sea,  to  the  harbor. 

556 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  threaded  her  way  across  the  broad  space,  going  in 
and  out  among  the  trams  and  the  waiting  people.  Then 
she  went  down  a  road  not  far  from  the  Grand  Hotel  and 
came  to  the  Marina. 

There  were  boys  bathing  still  from  the  breakwater  of 
the  rocks.  And  still  they  were  shouting.  She  stood  by 
the  wall  and  watched  them,  resting  her  hands  on  the 
stone. 

How  hot  the  stone  was!  Gaspare  had  been  right.  It 
was  going  to  be  a  glorious  day,  one  of  the  tremendous 
days  of  summer. 

The  nails  driven  through  the  green  lemon  like  nails 
driven  through  a  cross — Peppina — the  cross  cut  on  Pep- 
pina's  cheek. 

That  broad-shouldered  man  who  had  come  in  at  the 
door  had  cut  that  cross  on  Peppina's  cheek. 

Was  it  true  that  Peppina  had  the  evil  eye?  Had  it 
been  a  fatal  day  for  the  Casa  del  Mare  when  she  had 
been  allowed  to  cross  its  threshold?  Vere  had  said 
something — what  was  it  ? — about  Peppina  and  her  cross. 
Oh  yes!  That  Peppina's  cross  seemed  like  a  sign,  a 
warning  come  into  the  house  on  the  island,  that  it  seemed 
to  say,  "There  is  a  cross  to  be  borne  by  some  one  here, 
by  one  of  us!" 

And  the  fishermen's  sign  of  the  cross  under  the  light  of 
San  Francesco? 

Surely  there  had  been  many  warnings  in  her  life. 
They  had  been  given  to  her,  but  she  had  not  heeded 
them. 

She  saw  a  brown  body  shoot  through  the  air  from  the 
rocks  and  disappear  into  the  shining  sea.  Was  it  Ruffo  ? 
With  an  effort  she  remembered  that  she  had  left  Ruffo 
in  the  tall  house,  in  the  room  where  the  green  parrot  was. 

She  walked  on  slowly  till  she  came  to  the  place  where 
Artois  had  seen  Ruffo  with  his  mother.  A  number  of 
tables  were  set  out,  but  there  were  few  people  sitting  at 

557 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

them.  She  felt  tired.  She  crossed  the  road,  went  to  a 
table,  and  sat  down.  A  waiter  came  up  and  asked  her 
what  she  would  have. 

"Acqua  fresca,"  she  said. 

He  looked  surprised. 

"Oh — then  wine,  vermouth — anything!" 

He  looked  more  surprised. 

"Will  you  have  vermouth,  Signora?" 

"Yes,   yes — vermouth." 

He  brought  her  vermouth  and  iced  water.  She  mixed 
them  together  and  drank.  But  she  was  not  conscious  of 
tasting  anything.  For  a  considerable  time  she  sat  there. 
People  passed  her.  The  trams  rushed  by.  On  several 
of  them  were  printed  the  words  she  had  looked  for  in 
vain  at  the  station.  But  she  did  not  notice  them. 

During  this  time  she  did  not  feel  unhappy.  Seldom 
had  she  felt  calmer,  more  at  rest,  more  able  to  be  still. 
She  had  no  desire  to  do  anything.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  would  be  quite  satisfied  to  sit  where  she  was 
in  the  sun  forever. 

While  she  sat  there  she  was  always  thinking,  but 
vaguely,  slowly,  lethargically.  And  her  thoughts  re- 
iterated themselves,  were  like  recurring  fragments  of 
dreams,  and  were  curiously  linked  together.  The  green 
parrot  she  always  connected  with  the  death-charm,  be- 
cause the  latter  had  once  been  green.  Whenever  the 
one  presented  itself  to  her  mind  it  was  immediately 
followed  by  the  other.  The  shawl  at  which  the  old 
woman's  yellow  fingers  had  perpetually  pulled  led  her 
mind  to  the  thought  of  the  tunnel,  because  she  imagined 
that  the  latter  must  eventually  end  in  blackness,  and 
the  shawl  was  black.  She  knew,  of  course,  really  that 
the  tunnel  was  lit  from  end  to  end  by  electricity.  But 
her  mind  arbitrarily  put  aside  this  knowledge.  It  did 
not  belong  to  her  strange  mood,  the  mood  of  one  drawing 
near  to  the  verge  either  of  some  abominable  collapse  or 

SS8 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

of  some  terrible  activity.  Occasionally,  she  thought  of 
Ruffo;  but  always  as  one  of  the  brown  boys  bathing 
from  the  rocks  beyond  the  harbor,  shouting,  laughing, 
triumphant  in  his  glorious  youth.  And  when  the  link 
was,  as  it  were,  just  beginning  to  form  itself  from  the 
thought -shape  of  youth  to  another  thought -shape,  her 
mind  stopped  short  in  that  progress,  recoiled,  like  a 
creature  recoiling  from  a  precipice  it  has  not  seen  but 
has  divined  in  the  dark.  She  sipped  the  vermouth  and 
the  iced  water,  and  stared  at  the  drops  chasing  each 
other  down  the  clouded  glass.  And  for  a  time  she  was 
not  conscious  where  she  was,  and  heard  none  of  the 
noises  round  about  her. 

"Quanno  fa  notte  'nterra  Mergellina, 
Se  sceta  'o  mare  e  canta  chiano,  chiano, 
Si  fa  chiu  doce  st'  aria  d  'a  Marina, 
Pure  'e  serene  cantano  'a  luntano. 
Quanno  fa  notte  'nterra  Mergellina, 
E  custa  luna  dint'  'essere  e  state 
Lo  vularria  durmi,  ma  nun  e  cosa; 
Me  scetene  d'  'o  suonno  'e  sti  sarate, 
O'  Mare,  'e  Mergellina,  e  1'  uocchie  'e  Rosa!" 

It  was  the  song  of  Mergellina,  sung  at  some  distance 
off  in  dialect,  by  a  tenor  voice  to  the  accompaniment  of 
a  piano-organ.  Hermione  ceased  from  gazing  at  the 
drops  on  the  glass,  looked  up,  listened. 

The  song  came  nearer.  The  tenor  voice  was  hard, 
strident,  sang  lustily  but  inexpressively  in  the  glaring 
sunshine.  And  the  dialect  made  the  song  seem  different, 
almost  new.  Its  charm  seemed  to  have  evaporated. 
Yet  she  remembered  vaguely  that  it  had  charmed  her. 
She  sought  for  the  charm,  striving  feebly  to  recapture  it. 

"E  custa  luna  dint'  'essere  e  state — " 

The  piano-organ  hurt  her,  the  hard  voice  hurt  her. 
It  sounded  cruel  and  greedy.  But  the  song — once  it  had 

559 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

appealed  to  her.  Once  she  had  leaned  down  to  hear  it, 
she  had  leaned  down  over  the  misty  sea,  her  soul  had 
followed  it  out  over  the  sea. 

"  Oh,  dolce  luna  bianca  de  1'  estate 

Mi  fugge  il  sonno  accanto  a  la  Marina: 
Mi  destan  le  dolcissime  serate 

Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 

Those  were  the  real  words.  And  what  voice  had  sung 
them? 

And  then,  suddenly,  her  brain  worked  once  more  with 
its  natural  swiftness  and  vivacity,  her  imagination  and 
her  heart  awaked.  She  was  again  alive.  She  saw  the 
people.  She  heard  the  sounds  about  her.  She  felt  the 
scorching  heat  of  the  sun.  But  in  it  she  was  conscious 
also  of  the  opposite  of  day,  of  the  opposite  of  heat.  At 
that  moment  she  had  a  double  consciousness.  For  she 
felt  the  salt  coolness  of  the  night  around  the  lonely 
island.  And  she  heard  not  only  the  street  singer,  but 
Ruffo  in  his  boat. 

Ruffo — in  his  boat. 

Suddenly  she  could  not  see  anything.  Her  sight  was 
drowned  by  tears.  She  got  up  at  once.  She  felt  for 
her  purse,  found  it,  opened  it,  felt  for  money,  found  some 
coins,  laid  them  down  on  the  table,  and  began  to  walk. 
She  was  driven  by  fear,  the  fear  of  falling  down  in  the 
sun  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  and  crying,  sobbing,  with  her 
face  against  the  ground.  She  heard  a  shout.  Some  one 
gave  her  a  violent  push,  thrusting  her  forward.  She 
stumbled,  recovered  herself.  A  passer-by  had  saved  her 
from  a  tram.  She  did  not  know  it.  She  did  not  look 
at  him  or  thank  him.  He  went  away,  swearing  at  the 
English.  Where  was  she  going? 

She  must  go  home.  She  must  go  to  the  island.  She 
must  go  to  Vere,  to  Gaspare,  to  Emile — to  her  life. 

Her  body  and  soul  revolted  from  the  thought,  her  out- 
560 


raged  body  and  her  outraged  soul,  which  were  just  be- 
ginning to  feel  their  outrage,  as  flesh  and  nerves  begin 
to  feel  pain  after  an  operation  when  the  effect  of  the 
anaesthetic  gradually  fades  away. 

She  was  walking  up  the  hill  and  still  crying. 

She  met  a  boy  of  the  people,  swarthy,  with  impudent 
black  eyes,  tangled  hair,  and  a  big,  pouting  mouth,  above 
which  a  premature  mustache  showed  like  a  smudge.  He 
looked  into  her  face  and  began  to  laugh.  She  saw  his 
white  teeth,  and  her  tears  rushed  back  to  their  sources. 
At  once  her  eyes  were  dry.  And,  almost  at  once,  she 
thought,  her  heart  became  hard  as  stone,  and  she  felt 
self-control  like  iron  within  her. 

That  boy  of  the  people  should  be  the  last  human  being 
to  laugh  at  her. 

She  saw  a  tram  stop.  It  went  to  the  "Trattoria  del 
Giardinetto."  She  got  in,  and  sat  down  next  to  two 
thin  English  ladies,  who  held  guide-books  in  their  hands, 
and  whose  pointed  features  looked  piteously  inquiring. 

"Excuse  me,  but  do  you  know  this  neighborhood?" 

She  was  being  addressed. 

"Yes." 

"That  is  fortunate — we  do  not.  Perhaps  you  will 
kindly  tell  us  something  about  it.  Is  it  far  to  Bag- 
noli?" 

"Not  very  far." 

"And  when  you  get  there ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon!" 

"When  you  get  there,  is  there  much  to  see?" 

"Not  so  very  much." 

"Can  one  lunch  there?" 

"No  doubt." 

"Yes.  But  I  mean,  what  sort  of  lunch?  Can  one  get 
anything  clean  and  wholesome,  such  as  you  get  in  Eng- 
land?" 

"It  would  be  Italian  food." 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"  Oh,  dear!  Fanny,  this  lady  says  we  can  only  get 
Italian  food  at  Bagnoli!" 

"Tcha!     Tcha!" 

"But  perhaps — excuse  me,  but  do  you  think  we  could 
get  a  good  cup  of  tea  there?  We  might  manage  with 
that — tea  and  some  boiled  eggs.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Fanny  ?  Could  we  get  a  cup  of — 

The  tram  stopped.  Hermione  had  pulled  the  cord 
that  made  the  bell  sound.  She  paid  and  got  down. 
The  tram  carried  away  the  English  ladies,  their  pointed 
features  red  with  surprise  and  indignation. 

Hermione  again  began  to  walk,  but  almost  directly 
she  saw  a  wandering  carriage  and  hailed  the  driver. 

"Carrozza!" 

She  got  in. 

"Put  me  down  at  the  'Trattoria  del  Giardinetto.'" 

"Si,  Signora — but  how  much  are  you  going  to  give 
me?  I  can't  take  you  for  less  than — 

"Anything — five  lire — drive  on  at  once." 

The  man  drove  on,  grinning. 

Presently  Hermione  was  walking  through  the  short 
tunnel  that  leads  to  the  path  descending  between  vine- 
yards to  the  sea.  She  must  take  a  boat  to  the  island. 
She  must  go  back  to  the  island.  Where  else  could  she 
go  ?  If  Vere  had  not  been  there  she  might — but  Vere  was 
there.  It  was  inevitable.  She  must  return  to  the  island. 

She  stood  still  in  the  path,  between  the  high  banks. 

Her  body  was  demanding  not  to  be  forced  by  the  will 
to  go  to  the  island. 

"I  must  go  back  to  the  island." 

She  walked  on  very  slowly  till  she  could  see  the  shin- 
ing water  over  the  sloping,  vine-covered  land.  The  sight 
of  the  water  reminded  her  that  Gaspare  would  be  wait- 
ing for  her  on  the  sand  below  the  village.  When  she  re- 
membered that  she  stopped  again.  Then  she  turned 
round,  and  began  to  walk  back  towards  the  highroad. 

562 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Gaspare  was  waiting.  If  she  went  down  to  the  sand 
she  would  have  to  meet  his  great  intent  eyes,  those  watch- 
ful eyes  full  of  questions.  He  would  read  her.  He 
would  see  in  a  moment  that — she  knew.  And  he  would 
see  more  than  that!  He  would  see  that  she  was  hating 
him.  The  hatred  was  only  dawning,  struggling  up  in 
her  tangled  heart.  But  it  existed — it  was  there.  And 
he  would  see  that  it  was  there. 

She  walked  back  till  she  reached  the  tunnel  under  the 
highroad.  But  she  did  not  pass  through  it.  She  could 
not  face  the  highroad  with  its  traffic.  Perhaps  the  Eng- 
lish ladies  would  be  coming  back.  Perhaps —  She 
turned  again  and  presently  sat  down  on  a  bank,  and 
looked  at  the  dry  and  wrinkled  ground.  Nobody  went 
by.  The  lizards  ran  about  near  her  feet.  She  sat  there 
over  an  hour,  scarcely  moving,  with  the  sun  beating 
upon  her  head. 

Then  she  got  up  and  walked  fast,  and  with  a  firm 
step,  towards  the  village  and  the  sea. 

The  village  is  only  a  tiny  hamlet,  ending  in  a  small 
trattoria  with  a  rough  terrace  above  the  sea,  overlook- 
ing a  strip  of  sand  where  a  few  boats  lie.  As  Hermione 
came  to  the  steps  that  lead  down  to  the  terrace  she 
stood  still  and  looked  over  the  wall  on  her  left.  The 
boat  from  the  island  was  at  anchor  there,  floating  mo- 
tionless on  the  still  water.  Gaspare  was  not  in  it,  but 
was  lying  stretched  on  his  back  on  the  sand,  with  his 
white  linen  hat  over  his  face. 

He  lay  like  one  dead. 

She  stood  and  watched  him,  as  she  might  have  watched 
a  corpse  of  some  one  she  had  cared  for  but  who  was 
gone  from  her  forever. 

Perhaps  he  was  not  asleep,  for  almost  directly  he  be- 
came aware  of  her  observation,  sat  up,  and  uncovered  his 
face,  turning  towards  her  and  looking  up.  Already,  and 
from  this  distance,  she  could  see  a  fierce  inquiry  in  his  eyes. 

563 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  made  a  determined  effort  and  waved  her  hand. 

Gaspare  sprang  to  his  feet,  took  out  his  watch,  looked 
at  it,  then  went  and  fetched  the  boat. 

His  action — the  taking  out  of  the  watch — reminded 
Hermione  of  time.  She  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was 
half-past  two.  On  the  island  they  lunched  at  half-past 
twelve.  Gaspare  must  have  been  waiting  for  hours. 
What  did  it  matter? 

She  made  another  determined  effort  and  went  down 
the  remaining  steps  to  the  beach. 

Gaspare  should  not  know  that  she  knew.  She  was 
resolved  upon  that,  concentrated  upon  that.  Continual- 
ly she  saw  in  front  of  her  the  pouting  mouth,  the  white 
teeth  of  the  boy  who  had  laughed  at  her  in  the  street. 
There  should  be  no  more  crying,  no  more  visible  despair. 
No  one  should  see  any  difference  in  her.  All  the  time 
that  she  had  been  sitting  still  in  the  sun  upon  the  bank 
she  had  been  fiercely  schooling  herself  in  an  act  new  to 
her — the  act  of  deception.  She  had  not  faced  the  truth 
that  to-day  she  knew.  She  had  not  faced  the  ruin 
that  its  knowledge  had  made  of  all  that  had  been 
sacred  and  lovely  in  her  life.  She  had  fastened 
her  whole  force  fanatically  upon  that  one  idea,  that 
one  decision  and  the  effort  that  was  the  corollary 
of  it. 

"There  shall  be  no  difference  in  me.  No  one  is  to 
know  that  anything  has  happened." 

At  that  moment  she  was  a  fanatic.  And  she  looked 
like  one  as  she  came  down  upon  the  sand. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  late — Gaspare." 

It  was  difficult  to  her  to  say  his  name.  But  she  said 
it  firmly. 

"Signora,  it  is  nearly  three  o'clock." 

"Half -past  two.     No,  I  can  get  in  all  right." 

He  had  put  out  his  arm  to  help  her  into  the  boat. 
But  she  could  not  touch  him.  She  knew  that.  She 

564 


A  SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

felt  that  she  would  rather  die  at  the  moment  than  touch 
or  be  touched  by  him. 

"You  might  take  away  your  arm." 

He  dropped  his  arm  at  once. 

Had  she  already  betrayed  herself  ? 

She  got  into  the  boat  and  he  pushed  off. 

Usually  he  sat,  when  he  was  rowing,  so  that  he  might 
keep  his  face  towards  her.  But  to-day  he  stood  up  to 
row,  turning  his  back  to  her.  And  this  change  of  con- 
duct made  her  say  to  herself  again: 

"Have  I  betrayed  myself  already?" 

Fiercely  she  resolved  to  be  and  to  do  the  impossible. 
It  was  the  only  chance.  For  Gaspare  was  difficult  to 
deceive. 

"Gaspare!"  she  said. 

"Si,  Signora,"  he  replied,  without  turning  his  head. 

"Can't  you  row  sitting  down?" 

"If  you  like,  Signora." 

"We  can  talk  better  then." 

"Va  bene,  Signora." 

He  turned  round  and  sat  down. 

The  boat  was  at  this  moment  just  off  the  "Palace  of 
the  Spirits."  Hermione  saw  its  shattered  walls  cruelly 
lit  up  by  the  blazing  sun,  its  gaping  window-spaces  like 
eye-sockets,  sightless,  staring,  horribly  suggestive  of  ruin 
and  despair. 

She  was  like  that.  Gaspare  was  looking  at  her.  Gas- 
pare must  know  that  she  was  like  that. 

But  she  was  a  fanatic  just  then,  and  she  smiled  at  him 
with  a  resolution  that  had  in  it  something  almost  brutal, 
something  the  opposite  of  what  she  was,  of  the  sum  of 
her. 

"I  forgot  the  time.  It  is  so  lovely  to-day.  It  was 
so  gay  at  Mergellina." 

"Si?" 

"I  sat  for  a  long  time  watching  the  boats,  and  the 
565 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

boys  bathing,  and  listening  to  the  music.     They  sang 
'A  Merge llina.'" 

"Si?" 

She  smiled  again. 

"And  I  went  to  visit  Ruffo's  mother." 

Gaspare  made  no  response.  He  looked  down  now  as 
he  plied  his  oars. 

"She  seems  a  nice  woman.  I — I  dare  say  she  was  quite 
pretty  once." 

The  voice  that  was  speaking  now  was  the  voice  of  a 
fanatic. 

"I  am  sure  she  must  have  been  pretty." 
•"Chilosa?" 

"If  one  looks  carefully  one  can  see  the  traces.  But, 
of  course ,  now — 

She  stopped  abruptly.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to 
go  on.  She  was  passionately  trying  to  imagine  what 
that  spreading,  graceless  woman,  with  her  fat  hands 
resting  on  her  knees  set  wide  apart,  was  like  once — was 
like  nearly  seventeen  years  ago.  Was  she  ever  pretty, 
beautiful?  Never  could  she  have  been  intelligent — 
never,  never.  Then  she  must  have  been  beautiful.  For, 
otherwise —  Hermione's  drawn  face  was  flooded  with 
scarlet. 

"  If — if  it's  easier  to  you  to  row  standing  up,  Gaspare," 
she  almost  stammered,  "never  mind  about  sitting  down." 

"I  think  it  is  easier,  Signora." 

He  got  up,  and  once  more  turned  his  back  upon  her. 

They  did  not  speak  again  until  they  reached  the  island. 

Hermione  watched  his  strong  body  swinging  to  and 
fro  with  every  stroke,  and  wondered  if  he  felt  the  terrible 
change  in  her  feeling  for  him — a  change  that  a  few  hours 
ago  she  would  have  thought  utterly  impossible. 

She  wondered  if  Gaspare  knew  that  she  was  hating  him. 

He  was  alive  and,  therefore,  to  be  hated.  For  surely 
we  cannot  hate  the  dust ! 

566 


HE     TURNED     AND     GAZED     AFTER     HER      AS     SHE    WENT    UP 
THE    STEPS" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

GASPARE  did  not  offer  to  help  Hermione  out  of  the 
boat  when  they  reached  the  island.  He  glanced  at  her 
face,  met  her  eyes,  looked  away  again  immediately,  and 
stood  holding  the  boat  while  she  got  out.  Even  when 
she  stumbled  slightly  he  made  no  movement;  but  he 
turned  and  gazed  after  her  as  she  went  up  the  steps 
towards  the  house,  and  as  he  gazed  his  face  worked,  his 
lips  muttered  words,  and  his  eyes,  become  almost  fero- 
cious in  their  tragic  gloom,  we  re  clouded  with  moisture. 
Angrily  he  fastened  the  boat,  angrily  he  laid  by  the  oars. 
In  everything  he  did  there  was  violence.  He  put  up 
his  hands  to  his  eyes  to  rub  the  moisture  that  clouded 
them  away.  But  it  came  again.  And  he  swore  under 
his  breath.  He  looked  once  more  towards  the  Casa  del 
Mare.  The  figure  of  his  Padrona  had  disappeared,  but 
he  remembered  just  how  it  had  gone  up  the  steps — 
leaning  forward,  moving  very  slowly.  It  had  made  him 
think  of  an  early  morning  long  ago,  when  he  and  his 
Padrona  had  followed  a  coffin  down  the  narrow  street 
of  Marechiaro,  and  over  the  mountain  -  path  to  the 
Campo  Santo  above  the  Ionian  Sea.  He  shook  his  head, 
murmuring  to  himself.  He  was  not  swearing  now.  He 
shook  his  head  again  and  again.  Then  he  went  away, 
and  sat  down  under  the  shadow  of  the  cliff,  and  let  his 
hands  drop  down  between  his  knees. 

The  look  he  had  seen  in  his  Padrona 's  eyes  had  made 
him  feel  terrible.  His  violent,  faithful  heart  was  tor- 
mented. He  did  not  analyze — he  only  knew,  he  only 

567 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

felt.     And  he  suffered  horribly.     How  had  his  Padrona 
been  able  to  look  at  him  like  that  ?' 

The  moisture  came  thickly  in  his  eyes  now,  and  he  no 
longer  attempted  to  rub  it  away.  He  no  longer  thought 
of  it. 

Never  had  he  imagined  that  his  Padrona  could  look 
at  him  like  that.  Strong  man  though  he  was,  he  felt  as 
a  child  might  who  is  suddenly  abandoned  by  its  mother. 
He  began  to  think  now.  He  thought  over  all  he  had 
done  to  be  faithful  to  his  dead  Padrone  and  to  be  faith- 
ful to  the  Padrona.  During  many,  many  years  he  had 
done  all  he  could  to  be  faithful  to  these  two,  the  dead 
and  the  living.  And  at  the  end  of  this  long  service  he 
received  as  a  reward  this  glance  of  hatred. 

Tears  rolled  down  his  sunburnt  cheeks. 

The  injustice  of  it  was  like  a  barbed  and  poisoned 
arrow  in  his  heart.  He  was  not  able  to  understand 
what  his  Padrona  was  feeling,  how,  by  what  emotional 
pilgrimage,  she  had  reached  that  look  of  hatred  which 
she  had  cast  upon  him.  If  she  had  not  returned,  if  she 
had  done  some  deed  of  violence  in  the  house  of  Madda- 
lena,  he  could  perhaps  have  comprehended  it.  But 
that  she  should  come  back,  that  she  should  smile,  make 
him  sit  facing  her,  talk  about  Maddalena  as  she  had 
talked,  and  then — then  look  at  him  like  that! 

His  amour-propre,  his  long  fidelity,  his  deep  affection 
— all  were  outraged. 

Vere  came  down  the  steps  and  found  him  there. 

"Gaspare!" 

He  got  up  hastily  when  he  heard  her  voice,  rubbed  his 
eyes,  and  yawned. 

"I  was  asleep,  Signorina." 

She  looked  at  him  intently,  and  he  saw  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"Gaspare,  what  is  the  matter  with  Madre  ?" 

"Signorina?" 

568 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

"Oh,  what  is  the  matter?"  She  came  a  step  nearer 
to  him.  "Gaspare,  I'm  frightened!  I'm  frightened!" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Why,  Signorina?     Have  you  seen  the  Padrona?" 

"No.  But— but— I've  heard—  What  is  it?  What 
has  happened  ?  Where  has  Madre  been  all  this  time  ? 
Has  she  been  in  Naples?" 

"Signorina,  I  don't  think  so." 

"Where  has  she  been?" 

"I  believe  the  Signora  has  been  to  Mergellina." 

Vere  began  to  tremble. 

' '  What  can  have  happened  there  ?  What  can  have 
happened?" 

She  trembled  in  every  limb.  Her  face  had  become 
white. 

"Signorina,  Signorina!     Are  you  ill?" 

"No — I  don't  know  what  to  do — what  I  ought  to  do. 
I'm  afraid  to  speak  to  the  servants — they  are  making 
the  siesta.  Gaspare,  come  with  me,  and  tell  me  what 
we  ought  to  do.  But — never  say  to  any  one — never  say 
— if  you  hear!" 

"Signorina!" 

He  had  caught  her  terror.  His  huge  eyes  looked  awe- 
struck. 

"Come  with  me,  Gaspare!" 

Making  an  obvious  and  great  effort,  she  controlled  her 
body,  turned  and  went  before  him  to  the  house.  She 
walked  softly,  and  he  imitated  her.  They  almost  crept 
up-stairs  till  they  reached  the  landing  outside  Hermione's 
bedroom  door.  There  they  stood  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes, listening. 

"Come  away,  Gaspare!" 

Vere  had  whispered  with  lips  that  scarcely  moved. 

When  they  were  in  Hermione's  sitting-room  she  caught 
hold  of  both  his  hands.  She  was  a  mere  child  now,  a 
child  craving  for  help. 

569 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Oh,  Gaspare,  what  are  we  to  do?  Oh — I'm — I'm 
frightened!  I  can't  bear  it!" 

The  door  of  the  room  was  open. 

"Shut  it!"  she  said.     "Shut  it,  then  we  sha'n't — " 

He  shut  it. 

"What  can  it  be ?     What  can  it  be ?" 

She  looked  at  him,  followed  his  eyes.  He  had  stared 
towards  the  writing-table,  then  at  the  floor  near  it.  On 
the  table  lay  a  quantity  of  fragments  of  broken  glass, 
and  a  silver  photograph-frame  bent,  almost  broken.  On 
the  floor  was  scattered  a  litter  of  card-board. 

"She  came  in  here!     Madre  was  in  here — " 

She  bent  down  to  the  carpet,  picked  up  some  of  the 
bits  of  card-board,  turned  them  over,  looked  at  them. 
Then  she  began  to  tremble  again. 

"It's  father's  photograph!" 

She  was  now  utterly  terrified. 

"Oh,  Gaspare!     Oh,  Gaspare!" 

She  began  to  sob. 

"Hush,  Signorina!     Hush!" 

He  spoke  almost  sternly,  bent  down,  collected  the 
fragments  of  card-board  from  the  floor,  and  put  them  into 
his  pocket. 

"Father's  photograph!  She  was  in  here — she  came 
in  here  to  do  that!  And  she  loves  that  photograph. 
She  loves  it!" 

"Hush,  Signorina!     Don't,  Signorina — don't!" 

"We  must  do  something!     We  must — " 

He  made  her  sit  down.     He  stood  by  her. 

"What  shall  we  do,  Gaspare?     What  shall  we  do?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  demanding  counsel.  She  put 
out  her  hands  again  and  touched  his  arm.  His  Padron- 
cina — she  at  least  still  loved,  still  trusted  him. 

"Signorina,"  he  said,  "we  can't  do  anything." 

His  voice  was  fatalistic. 

"But — what  is  it?     Is — is — 
570 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

A  frightful  question  was  trembling  on  her  lips.  She 
looked  again  at  the  fragments  of  card-board  in  her  hand, 
at  the  broken  frame  on  the  table. 

"Can  Madre  be — " 

She  stopped.  Her  terror  was  increasing.  She  re- 
membered many  small  mysteries  in  the  recent  conduct 
of  her  mother,  many  moments  when  she  had  been  sur- 
prised, or  made  vaguely  uneasy,  by  words  or  acts  of  her 
mother.  Monsieur  Emile,  too,  he  had  wondered,  and 
more  than  once.  She  knew  that.  And  Gaspare — she 
was  sure  that  he,  also,  had  seen  that  change  which  now, 
abruptly,  had  thus  terribly  culminated.  Once  in  the 
boat  she  had  asked  him  what  was  the  matter  with  her 
mother,  and  he  had,  almost  angrily,  denied  that  any- 
thing was  the  matter.  But  .she  had  seen  in  his  eyes  that 
he  was  acting  a  part — that  he  wished  to  detach  her  ob- 
servation from  her  mother. 

Her  trembling  ceased.  Her  little  fingers  closed  more 
tightly  on  his  arm.  Her  eyes  became  imperious. 

"Gaspare,  you  are  to  tell  me.  I  can  bear  it.  You 
know  something  about  Madre." 

"Signorina — 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  coward?  I  was  frightened — I 
am  frightened,  but  I'm  not  really  a  coward,  Gaspare.  I 
can  bear  it.  What  is  it  you  know?" 

"Signorina,  we  can't  do  anything." 

"Is  it —     Does  Monsieur  Emile  know  what  it  is?" 

He  did  not  answer. 

Suddenly  she  got  up,  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
listened.  The  horror  came  into  her  face  again. 

"I  can't  bear  it,"  she  said.  "I — I  shall  have  to  go 
into  the  room." 

"No,  Signorina.     You  are  not  to  go  in." 

"If  the  door  isn't  locked  I  must — 

"It  is  locked." 

"You  don't  know.     You  can't  know." 
37  i 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  know  it  is  locked,  Signorina." 

Vere  put  her  hands  to  her  eyes. 

"It's  too  dreadful!  I  didn't  know  any  one — I  have 
never  heard — 

Gaspare  went  to  her  and  shut  the  door  resolutely. 

"You  are  not  to  listen,  Signorina.  You  are  not  to 
listen." 

He  spoke  no  longer  like  a  servant,  but  like  a  master. 

Vere's  hands  had  dropped. 

"I  am  going  to  send  for  Monsieur  Emile,"  she  said. 

"Va  bene,  Signorina." 

She  went  quickly  to  the  writing-table,  sat  down, 
hesitated.  Her  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  photograph- 
frame. 

"How  could  she?  How  could  she?"  she  said,  in  a 
choked  voice. 

Gaspare  took  the  frame  away  reverently,  and  put  it 
against  his  breast,  inside  his  shirt. 

"I  can't  go  to  Don  Emilio,  Signorina.  I  cannot  leave 
you." 

"No,  Gaspare.     Don't  leave  me!     Don't  leave  me!" 

She  was  the  terrified  child  again. 

"Perhaps  we  can  find  a  fisherman,  Signorina." 

"Yes,  but  don't —     Wait  for  me,  Gaspare!" 

"I  am  not  going,  Signorina." 

With  feverish  haste  she  took  a  pen  and  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  wrote: 

"  DEAR  MONSIEUR  EMILE, — Please  come  to  the  island  at  once. 
Something  terrible  has  happened.  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
But  Madre  is —  No,  I  can't  put  it.  Oh,  do  come — please — • 
please  come!  VERB. 

"Come  the  quickest  way." 

When  the  paper  was  shut  in  an  envelope  and  addressed 
she  got  up.  Gaspare  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  will  go  and  look  for  a  fisherman,  Signorina." 
"  But  I  must  come  with  you.     I  must  keep  with  you." 
572 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

She  held  on  to  his  arm. 

"I'm  not  a  coward.     But  I  can't — I  can't — " 

"Si,  Signorina!     Si,  Signorina!" 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it.  They  went  to  the 
door.  When  he  put  out  his  other  hand  to  open  it  Vere 
shivered. 

"If  we  can't  do  anything,  let  us  go  down  quickly, 
Gaspare!" 

"Si,  Signorina.     We  will  go  quickly." 

He  opened  the  door  and  they  went  out. 

In  the  Pool  of  the  Saint  there  was  no  boat.  They 
went  to  the  crest  of  the  island  and  looked  out  over  the 
sea.  Not  far  off,  between  the  island  and  Nisida,  there 
was  a  boat.  Gaspare  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth  and 
hailed  her  with  all  his  might.  The  two  men  in  her 
heard,  and  came  towards  the  shore. 

A  few  minutes  later,  with  money  in  their  pockets,  and 
set  but  cheerful  faces,  they  were  rowing  with  all  their 
strength  in  the  direction  of  Naples. 

That  afternoon  Artois,  wishing  to  distract  his  thoughts 
and  quite  unable  to  work,  went  up  the  hill  to  the  Mon- 
astery of  San  Martino.  He  returned  to  the  hotel  towards 
sunset  feeling  weary  and  depressed,  companionless,  too, 
in  this  gay  summer  world.  Although  he  had  never 
been  deeply  attached  to  the  Marchesino  he  had  liked 
him,  been  amused  by  him,  grown  accustomed  to  him. 
He  missed  the  "Toledo  incarnate."  And  as  he  walked 
along  the  Marina  he  felt  for  a  moment  almost  inclined 
to  go  away  from  Naples.  But  the  people  of  the  island! 
Could  he  leave  them  just  now?  Could  he  leave  Her- 
mione  so  near  to  the  hands  of  Fate,  those  hands  which 
were  surely  stretched  out  towards  her,  which  might 
grasp  her  at  any  moment,  even  to-night,  and  alter  her 
life  forever?  No,  he  knew  he  could  not. 

"Theje  is  a  note  for  Monsieur!" 

He  took  it  from  the  hall  porter. 

573 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"No,  I'll  walk  up-stairs." 

He  had  seen  that  the  lift  was  not  below,  and  did  not 
wish  to  wait  for  its  descent.  Vere's  writing  was  on  the 
envelope  he  held;  but  Vere's  writing  distorted,  frantic, 
tragic.  He  knew  before  he  opened  the  envelope  that  it 
must  contain  some  dreadful  statement  or  some  wild 
appeal;  and  he  hurried  to  his  room,  almost  feeling  the 
pain  and  fear  of  the  writer  burn  through  the  paper  to 
his  hand. 

"DEAR  MONSIEUR  EMILE, — Please  come  to  the  island  at  o'nce. 
Something  terrible  has  happened.  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
But  Madre  is —  No,  I  can't  put  it.  Oh,  do  come — please — 
please  come!  VERB. 

"Come  the  quickest  way." 

"Something  terrible  has  happened."  He  knew  at 
once  what  it  was.  The  walls  of  the  cell  in  which  he 
had  enclosed  his  friend  had  crumbled  away.  The  spirit 
which  for  so  long  had  rested  upon  a  lie  had  been  torn 
from  its  repose,  had  been  scourged  to  its  feet  to  face  the 
fierce  light  of  truth.  How  would  it  face  the  truth  ? 

"But  Madre  is—     No,  I  can't  put  it." 

That  phrase  struck  a  chill  almost  of  horror  to  his  soul. 
He  stared  at  it  for  a  moment  trying  to  imagine — things. 
Then  he  tore  the  note  up. 

The  quickest  way  to  the  island! 

"I  shall  not  be  in  to  dinner  to-night." 

He  was  speaking  to  the  waiter  at  the  door  of  the 
Egyptian  Room.  A  minute  later  he  was  in  the  Via 
Chiatamone  at  the  back  of  the  hotel  waiting  for  the 
tram.  He  must  go  by  Posilipo  to  the  Trattoria  del 
Giardinetto,  walk  down  to  the  village  below,  and  take 
a  boat  from  there  to  the  island.  That  was  the  quickest 
way.  The  tram-bell  sounded.  Was  he  glad?  As  he 
watched  the  tram  gliding  towards  him  he  was  conscious 
of  an  almost  terrible  reluctance — a  reluctance  surely 
of  fear — to  go  that  night  to  the  island. 

574 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

But  he  must  go. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  he  got  down  before  the 
Trattoria  del  Giardinetto.  Three  soldiers  were  sitting 
at  a  table  outside  on  the  dusty  road,  clinking  their 
glasses  of  marsala  together,  and  singing,  "  Piange  Rosina! 
La  Mamma  ci  domanda."  ,Their  brown  faces  looked 
vivid  with  the  careless  happiness  of  youth.  As  Artois 
went  down  from  the  road  into  the  tunnel  their  lusty 
voices  died  away: 

"lo  ti  voglio  dare 
Un  soldato  Bersagliere, 

lo  ti  voglio  dare 
Un  soldato  Bersagliere. 

Soldato  Bersagliere 
lo  non  lo  voglio — no! 
lo  non  lo  voglio — no!" 

Because  his  instinct  was  to  walk  slowly,  to  linger  on 
the  way,  he  walked  very  fast.  The  slanting  light  fell 
gently,  delicately,  over  the  opulent  vineyards,  where 
peasants  were  working  in  huge  straw  hats,  over  the  still 
shining  but  now  reposeful  sea.  In  the  sky  there  was  a 
mystery  of  color,  very  pure,  very  fragile,  like  the  mystery 
of  color  in  a  curving  shell  of  the  sea.  The  pomp  and 
magnificence  of  sunset  were  in  abeyance  to-night,  were 
laid  aside.  And  the  sun,  like  some  spirit  modestly  radi- 
ant, slipped  from  this  world  of  vineyards  and  of  waters 
almost  surreptitiously,  yet  shedding  exquisite  influences 
in  his  going. 

And  in  the  vineyards,  as  upon  the  dusty  highroad, 
the  people  of  the  South  were  singing. 

The  sound  of  their  warm  voices,  rising  in  the  golden 
air  towards  the  tender  beauty  of  the  virginal  evening 
sky,  moved  Artois  to  a  sudden  longing  for  a  universal 
brotherhood  of  happiness,  for  happy  men  on  a  happy 
earth,  men  knowing  the  truth  and  safe  in  their  knowl- 

575 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

edge.  And  he  longed,  too,  just  then  to  give  happiness. 
A  strongly  generous  emotion  stirred  him,  and  went  from 
him,  like  one  of  the  slanting  rays  of  light  from  the  sun, 
towards  the  island,  towards  his  friend,  Hermione.  His 
reluctance,  his  sense  of  fear,  were  lessened,  nearly  died 
away.  His  quickness  of  movement  was  no  longer  a 
fight  against,  but  a  fulfilment  of  desire. 

Once  she  had  helped  him.  Once  she  had  even,  per- 
haps, saved  him  from  death.  She  had  put  aside  her 
own  happiness.  She  had  shown  the  divine  self-sacrifice 
of  woman. 

And  now,  after  long  years,  life  brought  to  him  an  hour 
which  would  prove  him,  prove  him  and  show  how  far 
he  was  worthy  of  the  friendship  which  had  been  shed, 
generously  as  the  sunshine  over  these  vineyards  of  the 
South,  upon  him  and  his  life. 

He  came  down  to  the  sea  and  met  the  fisherman, 
Giovanni,  upon  the  sand. 

"Row  me  quickly  to  the  island,  Giovanni!"  he  said. 

"SI,  Signore." 

He  ran  to  get  the  boat. 

The  light  began  to  fail  over  the  sea.  They  cleared  the 
tiny  harbor  and  set  out  on  their  voyage. 

"The  Signora  has  been  here  to-day,  Signore,"  said 
Giovanni. 

"  Si  ?     When  did  she  come  ?" 

"This  morning,  with  Gaspare,  to  take  the  tram  to 
Mergellina." 

"She  went  to  Mergellina?" 

"Si,  Signore.  And  she  was  gone  a  very  long  time. 
Gaspare  was  back  for  her  at  half -past  eleven,  and  she  did 
not  come  till  nearly  three.  Gaspare  was  in  a  state,  I  can 
tell  you.  I  have  known  him — for  years  I  have  known 
him — and  never  have  I  seen  him  as  he  was  to-day." 

"And  the  Signora?  When  she  came,  did  she  look 
tired?" 

576 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Signore,  the  Signora's  face  was  like  the  face  of  one 
who  has  been  looked  on  by  the  evil  eye." 

"Row  quickly,  Giovanni!" 

"Si,  Signore." 

The  man  talked  no  more. 

When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  island  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun  were  striking  upon  the  windows  of  the  Casa  del 
Mare. 

The  boat,  urged  by  Giovanni's  powerful  arms,  drew 
rapidly  near  to  the  land,  and  Artois,  leaning  forward  with 
an  instinct  to  help  the  rower,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  these 
windows  which,  like  swift  jewels,  focussed  and  gave  back 
the  light.  While  he  watched  them  the  sun  sank.  Its 
radiance  was  withdrawn.  He  saw  no  longer  jewels, 
casements  of  magic,  but  only  the  windows  of  the  familiar 
house;  and  then,  presently,  only  the  window  of  one 
room,  Hermione's.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  as  the 
boat  drew  nearer  and  nearer — were  almost  hypnotized 
by  that.  Where  was  Hermione  ?  What  was  she  doing  ? 
How  was  she ?  how  would  she  be,  now  that — she  knew? 
A  terrible  but  immensely  tender,  immensely  pitiful, 
curiosity  took  possession  of  him,  held  him  fast,  body 
and  soul.  She  knew,  and  she  was  in  that  house! 

The  boat  was  close  in  now,  but  had  not  yet  turned 
into  the  Pool  of  San  Francesco.  Artois  kept  his  eyes 
upon  the  window  for  still  a  moment  longer.  He  felt 
now,  he  knew,  that  Hermione  was  in  the  room  beyond 
that  window.  As  he  gazed  up  from  the  sea  he  saw  that 
the  window  was  open.  He  saw  behind  the  frame  of  it 
a  white  curtain  stirring  in  the  breeze.  And  then  he  saw 
something  that  chilled  his  blood,  that  seemed  to  drive 
it  in  an  icy  stream  back  to  his  heart,  leaving  his  body 
for  a  moment  numb. 

He  saw  a  figure  come,  with  a  wild,  falling  movement, 
to  the  window — a  white,  distorted  face  utterly  strange 
to  him  looked  out — a  hand  lifted  in  a  frantic  gesture. 

577 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  gesture  was  followed  by  a  crash. 

The  green  Venetian  blind  had  fallen,  hiding  the  win- 
dow, hiding  the  stranger's  face. 

"Who  was  that  at  the  window,  Signore?"  asked 
Giovanni,  staring  at  Artois  with  round  and  startled 
eyes. 

And  Artois  answered:  "It  is  difficult  to  see,  Giovanni, 
now  that  the  sun  has  gone  down.  It  is  getting  dark  so 
quickly." 

"Si,  Signore,  it  is  getting  dark." 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

THERE  was  no  one  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  Artois  got 
out  of  the  boat  and  stood  for  a  moment,  hesitating 
whether  to  keep  Giovanni  or  to  dismiss  him. 

"I  can  stay,  Signore,"  said  the  man.  "You  will  want 
some  one  to  row  you  back." 

"No,  Giovanni.  I  can  get  Gaspare  to  put  me  ashore. 
You  had  better  be  off." 

"Va  bene,  Signore,"  he  replied,  looking  disappointed. 

The  Signora  of  the  Casa  del  Mare  was  always  very 
hospitable  to  such  fishermen  as  she  knew.  Giovanni 
wanted  to  seek  out  Gaspare,  to  have  a  cigarette.  But  he 
obediently  jumped  into  the  boat  and  rowed  off  into  the 
darkness,  while  Artois  went  up  the  steps  towards  the 
house. 

A  cold  feeling  of  dread  encompassed  him.  He  still 
saw,  imaginatively,  that  stranger  at  the  window,  that 
falling  movement,  that  frantic  gesture,  the  descending 
blind  that  brought  to  Hermione's  bedroom  a  greater 
obscurity.  And  he  remembered  Hermione's  face  in  the 
garden,  half  seen  by  him  once  in  shadows,  with  surely  a 
strange  and  terrible  smile  upon  it — a  smile  that  had 
made  him  wonder  if  he  had  ever  really  known  her. 

He  came  out  on  the  plateau  before  the  front  door. 
The  door  was  shut,  but  as  he  went  to  open  it  it  was 
opened  from  within,  and  Gaspare  stood  before  him  in 
the  twilight,  with  the  dark  passage  for  background. 

Gaspare  looked  at  Artois  in  silence. 

"Gaspare,"  Artois  said,  "I  came  home  from  San 
579 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Martino.     I  found  a  note  from  the  Signorina,  begging 
me  to  come  here  at  once." 

"Lo  so,  Signore." 

"I  have  come.  What  has — what  is  it ?  Where  is  the 
Signorina?" 

Gaspare  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow  doorway. 

"The  Signorina  is  in  the  garden." 

"Waiting  for  me ?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Very  well." 

He  moved  to  enter  the  house ;  but  Gaspare  stood  still 
where  he  was. 

"Signore,"  he  said. 

Artois  stopped  at  the  door-sill. 

"What  is  it?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  here?" 

At  last  Gaspare  was  frankly  the  watch-dog  guarding 
the  sacred  house.  His  Padrona  had  cast  upon  him  a 
look  of  hatred.  Yet  he  was  guarding  the  sacred  house 
and  her  within  it.  Deep  in  the  blood  of  him  was  the 
sense  that,  even  hating  him,  she  belonged  to  him  and  he 
to  her. 

And  his  Padroncina  had  trusted  him,  had  clung  to 
him  that  day. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  here?" 

"If  there  is  trouble  here,  I  want  to  help." 

"How  can  you  help,  Signore?" 

"First  tell  me — there  is  great  trouble?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

"And  you  know  what  it  is?  You  know  what  caused 
it?" 

"No  one  has  told  me." 

"  But  you  know  what  it  is  ?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Does — the  Signorina  doesn't  know?" 

"No,  Signore." 

580 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  paused,  then  added: 

"The  Signorina  is  not  to  know  what  it  is." 

"You  do  not  think  I  shall  tell  her?" 

"  Signore,  how  can  I  tell  what  you  will  do  here  ?  How 
can  I  tell  what  you  are  here  ?" 

For  a  moment  Artois  felt  deeply  wounded — wounded 
to  the  quick.  He  had  not  supposed  it  was  possible  for 
any  one  to  hurt  him  so  much  with  a  few  quiet  words. 
Anger  rose  in  him,  an  anger  such  as  the  furious  at- 
tack of  the  Marchesino  had  never  brought  to  the 
birth. 

"You  can  say  that!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  can  say 
that,  after  Sicily!" 

Gaspare's  face  changed,  softened  for  an  instant,  then 
grew  stern  again. 

"That  was  long  ago,  Signore.  It  was  all  different  in 
Sicily!" 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  yet  his  face  remained  stern. 
But  Artois  was  seized  again,  as  when  he  walked  in  the 
golden  air  between  the  vineyards  and  heard  the  peasants 
singing,  by  an  intense  desire  to  bring  happiness  to  the 
unhappy,  especially  and  above  all  to  one  unhappy  wom- 
an. To-night  his  intellect  was  subordinate  to  his  heart, 
his  pride  of  intellect  was  lost  in  feeling,  in  an  emotion 
that  the  simplest  might  have  understood  and  shared: 
the  longing  to  be  of  use,  to  comfort,  to  pour  balm  into 
the  terrible  wound  of  one  who  had  been  his  friend — such 
a  friend  as  only  a  certain  type  of  woman  can  be  to  a 
certain  type  of  man. 

"Gaspare,"  he  said,  "you  and  I — we  helped  the  Sign- 
ora  once,  we  helped  her  in  Sicily." 

Gaspare  looked  away  from  him,  and  did  not  answer. 

"Perhaps  we  can  help  her  now.  Perhaps  only  we  can 
help  her.  Let  me  into  the  house,  Gaspare.  I  shall  do 
nothing  here  to  make  your  Padrona  sad." 

Gaspare  looked  at  him  again,  looked  into  his  eyes,  then 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

moved  aside,  giving  room  for  him  to  enter.  As  soon  as 
he  was  in  the  passage  Gaspare  shut  the  door. 

"I  am  sorry,  Sign  ore;  the  lamp  is  not  lighted." 

Artois  felt  at  once  an  unusual  atmosphere  in  the 
house,  an  atmosphere  not  of  confusion  but  of  mystery, 
of  secret  curiosity,  of  brooding  apprehension.  At  the 
foot  of  the  servants'  staircase  he  heard  a  remote  sound 
of  whispering,  which  emphasized  the  otherwise  com- 
plete silence  of  this  familiar  dwelling,  suddenly  become 
unfamiliar  to  him — unfamiliar  and  almost  dreadful. 

"I  had  better  go  into  the  garden." 

"Si,  Signore." 

Gaspare  looked  down  the  servants'  staircase  and  hissed 
sharply: 

"Sh!     S-s-sh!" 

"The  Signora — ?"  asked  Artois,  as  Gaspare  came  to 
him  softly. 

"The  Signora  is  always  in  her  room.  She  is  shut  up 
in  her  room." 

"I  saw  the  Signora  just  now,  at  the  window,"  Artois 
said,  in  an  undervoice. 

"You  saw  the  Signora?" 

Gaspare  looked  at  him  with  sudden  eagerness  mingled 
with  a  flaming  anxiety. 

"From  the  boat.  She  came  to  the  window  and  let 
down  the  blind." 

Gaspare  did  not  ask  anything.  They  went  on  to  the 
terrace  above  the  sea. 

"I  will  tell  the  Signorina  you  have  come,  Signore." 

"Sha'n't  I  go  down?" 

"I  had  better  go  and  tell  her." 

He  spoke  with  conviction.  Artois  did  not  dispute  his 
judgment.  He  went  away,  always  softly.  Artois  stood 
still  on  the  terrace.  The  twilight  was  spreading  itself 
over  the  sea,  like  a  veil  dropping  over  a  face.  The  house 
was  dark  behind  him.  In  that  darkness  Hermione  was 

582 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

hidden,  the  Hermione  who  was  a  stranger  to  him,  the 
Hermione  into  whose  heart  and  soul  he  was  no  longer 
allowed  to  look.  Upon  Monte  Amato  at  evening  she 
had,  very  simply,  showed  to  him  the  truth  of  her  great 
sorrow. 

Now — he  saw  the  face  at  the  window,  the  falling  blind. 
Between  then  and  now — what  a  gulf  fixed! 

Vere  came  from  the  garden  followed  by  Gaspare.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  with  terror.  The  eyelids  were  red.  She 
had  been  weeping.  She  almost  ran  to  Artois,  as  a  child 
runs  to  refuge.  Never  before  had  he  felt  so  acutely  the 
childishness  that  still  lingered  in  this  little  Vere  of  the 
island — lingered  unaffected,  untouched  by  recent  events. 
Thank  God  for  that!  In  that  moment  the  Marchesino 
was  forgiven;  and  Artois — did  he  not  perhaps  also  in 
that  moment  forgive  himself  ? 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Emile — I  thought  you  wouldn't  come!" 

There  was  the  open  reproach  of  a  child  in  her  voice. 
She  seized  his  hand. 

"Has  Gaspare  told  you?"  She  turned  her  head  tow- 
ards Gaspare.  "Something  terrible  has  happened  to 
Madre.  Monsieur  Emile,  do  you  know  what  it  is?" 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  an  intense  scrutiny. 

"Gaspare  is  hiding  something  from  me — " 

Gaspare  stood  there  and  said  nothing. 

" — something  that  perhaps  you  know." 

Gaspare  looked  at  Artois,  and  Artois  felt  now  that 
the  watch-dog  trusted  him.  He  returned  the  Sicilian's 
glance,  and  Gaspare  moved  away,  went  to  the  rail  of  the 
terrace,  and  looked  down  over  the  sea. 

"Do  you  know?  Do  you  know  anything — anything 
dreadful  about  Madre  that  you  have  never  told  me  ?" 

"Vere,  don't  be  frightened." 

"Ah,  but  you  haven't  been  here!  You  weren't  here 
when — " 

"What  is  it?" 

583 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Her  terror  infected  him. 

"Madre  came  back.  She  had  been  to  Mergellina  all 
alone.  She  was  away  such  a  long  time.  When  she  came 
back  I  was  in  my  room.  I  didn't  know.  I  didn't  hear 
the  boat.  But  my  door  was  open,  and  presently  I  heard 
some  one  come  up-stairs  and  go  into  the  boudoir.  It 
was  Madre.  I  know  her  step.  I  know  it  was  Madre '/' 

She  reiterated  her  assertion,  as  if  she  anticipated  that 
he  was  going  to  dispute  it. 

"She  stayed  in  the  boudoir  only  a  very  little  while — 
only  a  few  minutes.  Oh,  Monsieur  Emile,  but — " 

"Vere!  What  do  you  mean?  Did — what  happened 
there — in  the  boudoir?" 

He  was  reading  from  her  face. 

"She  went — Madre  went  in  there  to — " 

She  stopped  and  swallowed. 

"Madre  took  father's  photograph — the  one  on  the 
writing-table — and  tore  it  to  pieces.  And  the  frame — • 
that  was  all  bent  and  nearly  broken.  Father's  photo- 
graph, that  she  loves  so  much!" 

Artois  said  nothing.  At  that  moment  it  was  as  if  he 
entered  suddenly  into  Hermione's  heart,  and  knew  every 
feeling  there. 

"Monsieur  Emile — is  she — is  Madre — ill?" 

She  began  to  tremble  once  more,  as  she  had  trembled 
when  she  came  to  fetch  Gaspare  from  the  nook  of  the 
cliff  beside  the  Saint's  Pool. 

"Not  as  you  mean,  Vere." 

"You  are  sure?     You  are  certain?" 

"Not  in  that  way?" 

"But  then  I  heard  Madre  come  out  and  go  to  her 
bedroom.  I  didn't  hear  whether  she  locked  the  door.  I 
only  heard  it  shut.  But  Gaspare  says  he  knows  it  is 
locked.  Two  or  three  minutes  after  the  door  was  shut 
I  heard — I  heard — " 

"Don't  be  afraid.     Tell  me — if  I  ought  to  know." 
584 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Those  words  voiced  a  deep  and  delicate  reluctance 
which  was  beginning  to  invade  him.  Yet  he  wished  to 
help  Vere,  to  release  this  child  from  the  thrall  of  a  terror 
which  could  only  be  conquered  if  it  were  expressed. 

"Tell  me,"  he  added,  slowly. 

"I  heard  Madre — Monsieur  Emile,  it  was  hardly  cry- 
ing!" 

"Don't.     You  needn't  tell  me  any  more." 

"Gaspare  heard  it  too.  It  went  on  for  a  long,  long 
time.  We  —  Gaspare  made  the  servants  keep  down- 
stairs. And  then — then  it  stopped.  And  we  have  heard 
nothing  ever  since.  And  I — I  have  been  waiting  for 
you  to  come,  because  Madre  cares  for  you." 

Artois  put  his  hand  down  quickly  upon  Vere's  right 
hand. 

"I  am  glad  you  sent  for  me,  Vere.  I  am  glad  you 
think  that.  Come  and  sit  down  on  the  bench." 

He  drew  her  down  beside  him.  He  felt  that  he  was 
with  a  child  whom  he  must  comfort.  Gaspare  stood  al- 
ways looking  down  over  the  rail  of  the  terrace  to  the  sea. 

"Vere!" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Emile." 

"Your  mother  is  not  ill,  as  you  thought  —  feared. 
But — to-day — she  has  had,  she  must  have  had,  a  great 
shock." 

"But  at  Mergellina?" 

"Only  that  could  account  for  what  you  have  just 
told  me." 

"But  I  don't  understand.  She  only  went  to  Mergel- 
lina." 

"Did  you  see  her  before  she  went  there?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  she  as  usual?" 

"I  don't  think  she  was.  I  think  Madre  has  been 
changing  nearly  all  this  summer.  That  is  why  I  am  so 
afraid.  You  know  she  has  been  changing." 

585 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

He  was  silent.  The  difficulty  of  the  situation  was 
great.  He  did  not  know  how  to  resolve  it. 

"You  have  seen  the  change,  Monsieur  Emile!" 

He  did  not  deny  it.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  or 
say.  For  of  that  change,  although  perhaps  now  he 
partly  understood  it,  he  could  never  speak  to  Vere  or  to 
any  one. 

"It  has  made  me  so  unhappy,"  Vere  said,  with  a  break 
in  her  voice. 

And  he  had  said  to  himself:  "Vere  must  be  happy!" 
At  that  moment  he  and  his  intellect  seemed  to  him  less 
than  a  handful  of  dust. 

"But  this  change  of  to-day  is  different,"  he  said,  slow- 
ly. "Your  mother  has  had  a  dreadful  shock." 

"At  Mergellina?" 

"It  must  have  been  there." 

"But  what  could  it  be?  We  scarcely  ever  go  there. 
We  don't  know  any  one  there — oh,  except  Ruffo." 

Her  eyes,  keen  and  bright  with  youth,  even  though 
they  had  been  crying,  were  fixed  upon  his  face  while  she 
was  speaking,  and  she  saw  a  sudden  conscious  look  in 
his  eyes,  a  movement  of  his  lips — he  drew  them  sharply 
together,  as  if  seized  by  a  spasm. 

"Ruffo!"  she  repeated.  "Has  it  something  to  do 
with  Ruffo?" 

There  was  a  profound  perplexity  in  her  face,  but  the 
fear  in  it  was  less. 

"Something  to  do  with  Ruffo?"  she  repeated. 

Suddenly  she  moved,  she  got  up.  And  all  the  fear 
had  come  back  to  her  face,  with  something  added  to  it, 
something  intensely  personal. 

"Do  you  mean — is  Ruffo  dead?"  she  whispered. 

A  voice  rose  up  from  the  sea  singing  a  sad  little  song. 
Vere  turned  towards  the  sea.  All  her  body  relaxed.  The 
voice  passed  on.  The  sad  little  song  passed  under  the 
cliff,  to  the  Saint's  Pool  and  the  lee  of  the  island. 

586 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Emile,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you 
tell  me?" 

She  swayed.     He  put  his  arm  quickly  behind  her. 

"No,  no!     It's  all  right.     That  was  Ruffo!" 

And  she  smiled. 

At  that  moment  Artois  longed  to  tell  her  the  truth. 
To  do  so  would  surely  be  to  do  something  that  was 
beautiful.  But  he  dared  not — he  had  no  right. 

A  bell  rang  in  the  house,  loudly,  persistently,  tearing 
its  silence.  Gaspare  turned  angrily  from  the  rail,  with 
an  expression  of  apprehension  on  his  face. 

Giulia  was  summoning  the  household  to  dinner. 

"Perhaps — perhaps  Madre  will  come  down,"  Vere 
whispered. 

Gaspare  passed  them  and  went  into  the  house  quickly. 
They  knew  he  had  gone  to  see  if  his  Padrona  was  com- 
ing. Moved  by  a  mutual  instinct,  they  stayed  where 
they  were  till  he  should  come  to  them  again. 

For  a  long  time  they  waited.     He  did  not  return. 

"We  had  better  go  in,  Vere.     You  must  eat." 

"I  can't — unless  she  comes." 

"You  must  try  to  eat." 

He  spoke  to  her  as  to  a  child. 

"And  perhaps — Gaspare  may  be  with  her,  may  be 
speaking  with  her.  Let  us  go  in." 

They  passed  into  the  house,  and  went  to  the  dining- 
room.  The  table  was  laid.  The  lamp  was  lit.  Giulia 
stood  by  the  sideboard  looking  anxious  and  subdued. 
She  did  not  even  smile  when  she  saw  Artois,  who  was  her 
favorite. 

"Where  is  Gaspare,  Giulia?"  said  Artois. 

"Up-stairs,  Signore.  He  came  in  and  ran  up-stairs, 
and  he  has  not  come  down.  Ah!" — she  raised  her  hands 
— ' '  the  evil  eye  has  looked  upon  this  house !  When  that 
girl  Peppina — 

"Be  quiet!"  Artois  said,  sharply. 
38  587 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Giulia's  round,  black  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her 
mouth  opened  in  surprise. 

He  put  his  hand  kindly  on  her  arm. 

"  Never  mind,  Giulia  mia!  But  it  is  foolish  to  talk 
like  that.  There  is  no  reason  why  evil  should  come 
upon  the  Casa  del  Mare.  Here  is  Gaspare!" 

At  this  moment  he  entered,  looking  tragic. 

"Go  away,  Giulia!"  he  said  to  her,  roughly. 

"Ma—" 

"Go  away!" 

He  put  her  out  of  the  room  without  ceremony,  and 
shut  the  door. 

"Signore!"  he  said  to  Artois,  "I  have  been  up  to  the 
Padrona's  room.  I  have  knocked  on  the  door.  I  have 
spoken — " 

"What  did  you  say?" 

'•'I  did  not  say  that  you  were  here,  Signore." 

"Did  you  ask  the  Signora  to  come  down?" 

"I  asked  if  she  was  coming  down  to  dinner.  I  said 
the  Signorina  was  waiting  for  her." 

"Yes?" 

"The  Signora  did  not  answer.  There  was  no  noise, 
and  in  the  room  there  is  no  light!" 

"Let  me  go!"  Vere  said,  breathlessly. 

She  was  moving  towards  the  door  when  Artois  stopped 
her  authoritatively. 

"No,  Vere — wait!" 

"But  some  one  must — I'm  afraid — " 

"Wait,  Vere!" 

He  turned  once  more  to  Gaspare. 

"Did  you  try  the  door,  Gaspare?" 

"Signore,  I  did.  After  I  had  spoken  several  times 
and  waited  a  long  time,  I  tried  the  door  softly.  It  is 
locked." 

"You  see!" 

It  was  Vere  speaking,  still  breathlessly. 
58* 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Let  me  go,  Monsieur  Emile.  We  can't  let  Madre 
stay  like  that,  all  alone  in  the  dark.  She  must  have 
food.  We  can't  stay  down  here  and  leave  her." 

Artois  hesitated.  He  thought  of  the  stranger  at  the 
window,  and  he  felt  afraid.  But  he  concealed  his  fear. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  go,  Vere,"  he  said,  at  length. 
"But  if  she  does  not  answer,  don't  try  the  door.  Don't 
knock.  Just  speak.  You  will  find  the  best  words." 

"Yes.     I'll  try— I'll  try." 

Gaspare  opened  the  door.  Giulia  was  sobbing  out- 
side. Her  pride  and  dignity  were  lacerated  by  Gaspare's 
action. 

"Giulia,  never  mind!  Don't  cry!  Gaspare  didn't 
mean — •" 

Before  she  had  finished  speaking  the  servant  passion- 
ately seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  Vere  released  her 
hand  very  gently  and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs. 

The  instinct  of  Artois  was  to  follow  her.  He  longed 
to  follow  her,  but  he  denied  himself,  and  sat  down  by 
the  dinner-table,  on  which  the  zuppa  di  pesce  was  smok- 
ing under  the  lamp.  Giulia,  trying  to  stifle  her  sobs, 
went  away  down  the  kitchen  stairs,  and  Gaspare  stood 
near  the  door.  He  touched  his  face  with  his  hands, 
opened  and  shut  his  lips,  then  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  and  stared  first  at  Artois  then  at  the  floor.  His 
cheeks  and  his  forehead  looked  hot,  as  if  he  had  just 
finished  some  difficult  physical  act.  Artois  did  not 
glance  at  him.  In  that  moment  both  men,  in  their  dif- 
ferent ways,  felt  dreadfully,  almost  unbearably,  self- 
conscious. 

Presently  Vere's  step  was  heard  again  on  the  stairs, 
descending  softly  and  slowly.  She  came  in  and  went 
at  once  to  Artois. 

"Madre  doesn't  answer." 

Artois  got  up. 

"What  ought  we  to  do?" 
589 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Verc  was  whispering. 

"Did  you  hear  anything?" 

"No." 

Gaspare  moved,  took  his  hands  violently  out  of  his 
pockets,  then  thrust  them  in  again. 

Artois  stood  in  silence.  His  face,  generally  so  strong, 
so  authoritative,  showed  his  irresolution,  and  Vere,  look- 
ing to  him  like  a  frightened  child  for  guidance,  felt  her 
terror  increase. 

"Shall  I  go  up  again?  I  didn't  knock.  You  told 
me  not  to.  Shall  I  go  and  knock?  Or  shall  Gaspare 
go  again?" 

She  did  not  suggest  that  Artois  should  go  himself. 
He  noticed  that,  even  in  this  moment  of  the  confusion 
of  his  will. 

"I  think  we  had  better  leave  her  for  a  time,"  he  said, 
at  last. 

As  he  spoke  he  made  an  effort,  and  recovered  himself. 

"We  had  better  do  nothing  more.     What  can  we  do  ?" 

He  was  looking  at  Gaspare. 

Gaspare  went  out  into  the  passage  and  called  down 
the  stairs. 

1 '  Giulia !    Come  up !   The  Signorina  is  going  to  dinner. ' ' 

His  defiant  voice  sounded  startling  in  the  silent  house. 

"We  are  to  eat!" 

"Yes,  Vere.  I  shall  stay.  Presently  your  mother 
may  come  down.  She  feels  that  she  must  be  alone. 
We  have  no  right  to  try  to  force  ourselves  upon  her." 

"Do  you  think  it  is  that?  Are  you  telling  me  the 
truth?  Are  you?" 

"If  she  does  not  come  down  presently  I  will  go  up. 
Don't  be  afraid.  I  will  not  leave  you  till  she  comes 
down." 

Giulia  returned,  wiping  her  eyes.  When  he  saw  her 
Gaspare  disappeared.  They  knew  he  had  gone  to  wait 
outside  his  Padrona's  door. 

590 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  dinner  passed  almost  in  silence.  Artois  ate,  and 
made  Vere  eat.  Vere  sat  in  her  mother's  place,  with 
her  back  to  the  door.  Artois  was  facing  her.  Often 
his  eyes  travelled  to  the  door.  Often,  too,  Vere  turned 
her  head.  And  in  the  silence  both  were  listening  for  a 
step  that  did  not  come:  Vere  with  a  feverish  eagerness, 
Artois  with  a  mingling  of  longing  and  of  dread.  For  he 
knew  he  dreaded  to  see  Hermione  that  night.  He  knew 
that  it  would  be  terrible  to  him  to  meet  her  eyes,  to 
speak  to  her,  to  touch  her  hand.  And  yet  he  longed  for 
her  to  come.  For  he  was  companioned  by  a  great  and 
growing  fear,  which  he  must  hide.  And  that  act  of 
secrecy,  undertaken  for  Vere's  sake,  seemed  to  increase 
the  thing  he  hid,  till  the  shadow  it  had  been  began  to 
take  form,  to  grow  in  stature,  to  become  dominating, 
imperious. 

Giulia  put  some  fruit  on  the  table.  The  meal  was 
over,  and  there  had  been  no  sound  outside  upon  the 
stairs. 

"Monsieur  Emile,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Go  to  the  drawing-room,  Vere.  I  will  go  out  and 
see  whether  there  is  any  light  in  your  mother's  win- 
dow." 

She  obeyed  him  silently  and  went  away.  Then  he 
took  his  hat  and  went  out  upon  the  terrace. 

Gaspare  had  said  that  Hermione 's  room  was  dark. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  mistaken.  The  key  might  have 
been  so  placed  in  the  lock  that  he  had  been  deceived. 
As  Artois  walked  to  a  point  from  which  he  could,  see 
one  of  the  windows  of  Hermione 's  bedroom,  he  knew 
that  he  longed  to  see  a  light  there.  If  the  window  was 
dark  the  form  of  his  fear  would  be  more  distinct.  He 
reached  the  point  and  looked  up.  There  was  no  light. 

He  stood  there  for  some  time  gazing  at  that  darkness. 
He  thought  of  the  bent  photograph-frame,  of  the  photo- 
graph that  had  been  so  loved  torn  into  fragments,  of 

591 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  sound  that  was — hardly  crying,  and  of  the  face  he 
had  seen  for  an  instant  as  he  drew  near  to  the  island. 
He  ought  to  come  to  some  decision,  to  take  some  action. 
Vere  was  depending  upon  him.  But  he  felt  as  if  he 
could  do  nothing.  In  answer  to  Vere's  appeal  he  had 
hastened  to  the  island.  And  now  he  was  paralyzed,  he 
was  utterly  useless. 

He  felt  as  if  he  dared  no',  do  anything.  Hermione, 
in  her  grief,  had  suddenly  passed  from  him  into  a  dark- 
ness that  was  sacred.  What  right  had  he  to  try  to 
share  it? 

And  yet — if  that  great  shape  of  fear  were  not  the  body 
of  a  lie,  but  of  the  truth  ? 

Never  before  had  he  felt  so  impotent,  so  utterly  un- 
worthy of  his  manhood. 

He  moved  away,  turned,  came  back  and  stood  once 
more  beneath  the  window.  Ought  he  to  go  up  to  Her- 
mione's  door,  to  knock,  to  speak,  to  insist  on  admittance  ? 
And  if  there  was  no  reply  ? — what  ought  he  to  do  then  ? 
Break  down  the  door  ? 

He  went  into  the  house.  Vere  was  sitting  in  the 
drawing-room  looking  at  the  door.  She  sprang  up. 

"Is  there  a  light  in  Madre's  room?" 

"No." 

He  saw,  as  he  answered,  that  she  caught  his  fear, 
that  hers  now  had  the  same  shape  as  his. 

"Monsieur  Emile,  you — you  don't  think — ?" 

Her  voice  faltered,  her  bright  eyes  became  changed, 
dim,  seemed  to  sink  into  her  head. 

"You  must  go  to  her  room.  Go  to  Madre,  Monsieur 
Emile.  Go!  speak  to  her!  Make  her  answer!  Make 
her!  make  her!" 

She  put  her  hands  on  him.  She  pushed  him  fran- 
tically. 

He  took  her  hands  and  held  them  tightly. 

"I  am  going,  Vere.     Don't  be  frightened!" 
592 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"But  you  are  frightened!     You  are  frightened!" 

"I  will  speak  to  your  mother.  I  will  beg  her  to  an- 
swer." 

"And  if  she  doesn't  answer?" 

"I  will  get  into  the  room." 

He  let  go  her  hands  and  went  towards  the  door. 
Just  as  he  reached  it  there  came  from  below  in  the  house 
a  loud,  shrill  cry.  It  was  followed  by  an  instant  of 
silence,  then  by  another  cry,  louder,  nearer  than  before. 
And  this  time  they  could  hear  words: 

"La  fattura  delta  morte!    La  fattura  delta  morte!" 

Running,  stumbling  feet  sounded  outside,  and  Pep- 
pina  appeared  at  the  door,  her  disfigured  face  convulsed 
with  terror,  her  hand  out-stretched. 

"Look!"  she  cried,  shrilly.  "Look,  Signorina!  Look, 
Signore!  La  fattura  delta  morte!  La  fattura  della 
morte!  It  has  been  brought  to  the  house  to-night! 
It  has  been  put  in  my  room  to-night!" 

In  her  hand  lay  a  green  lemon  pierced  by  many  nails. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"MONSIEUR  EMILE,  what  is  it?"  exclaimed  Vere. 

The  frightened  servants  were  gone,  half  coaxed  and 
half  scolded  into  silence  by  Artois.  He  had  taken  the 
lemon  from  Peppina,  and  it  lay  now  in  his  hand. 

"It  is  what  the  people  of  Naples  call  a  death-charm." 

"A  death-charm?" 

In  her  eyes  superstition  dawned. 

"Why  do  they  call  it  that?" 

"Because  it  is  supposed  to  bring  death  to  any  one — • 
any  enemy — near  whom  it  is  placed." 

"Who  can  have  put  it  in  the  house  to-night?"  Vere 
said.  Her  voice  was  low  and  trembling.  "Who  can 
have  wished  to  bring  death  here  to-night?" 

"I  don't  know,  Vere." 

"And  such  a  thing — could  it  bring  death?" 

"Vere!     You  can  ask  me!" 

He  spoke  with  an  attempt  at  smiling  irony,  but  his 
eyes  held  something  of  the  awe,  the  cloudy  apprehen- 
sion that  had  gathered  in  hers. 

"Where  is  your  mind?"  he  added. 

She  answered:  "Are  you  going  to  Madre's  room,  Mon- 
sieur Emile?" 

He  put  the  death-charm  down  quickly,  as  if  it  had 
burned  his  hand. 

"I  am  going  now.     Gaspare!" 

At  this  moment  Gaspare  came  into  the  room  with  a 
face  that  was  almost  livid. 

"Who  is  it  that  has  brought  a  fattura  della  morte 
here?"  he  exclaimed. 

594 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

His  usually  courageous  eyes  were  full  of  superstitious 
fear. 

"Signore,  do  you — 

He  stopped.  He  had  seen  the  death-charm  lying  on 
the  little  table  covered  with  silver  trifles.  He  approach- 
ed it,  made  a  sign  of  the  cross,  bent  down  his  head  and 
examined  it  closely,  but  did  not  touch  it. 

Artois  and  Vere  watched  him  closely.  He  lifted  up 
his  head  at  last. 

"I  know  who  brought  the  fattura  della  morte  here," 
he  said,  solemnly.  "I  know." 

"Who?"  said  Vere. 

"It  was  Ruffo." 

"Ruffo!" 

Vere  reddened.  "Ruffo!  He  loves  our  house,  and 
he  loves  us!" 

"It  is  Ruffo,  Signorina.  It  is  Ruffo.  He  brought 
it,  and  it  is  he  that  must  take  it  away.  Do  not  touch 
it,  Signorina.  Do  not  touch  it,  Signore.  Leave  it  where 
it  is  till  Ruffo  comes,  till  Ruffo  takes  it  away." 

He  again  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  drew  back 
from  the  death-charm  with  a  sort  of  mysterious  caution. 

"Signore,"  he  said  to  Artois,  "I  will  go  down  to  the 
Saint's  Pool.  I  will  find  Ruffo.  I  will  bring  him  here. 
I  will  make  him  come  here." 

He  was  going  out  when  Artois  put  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"And  the  Padrona?" 

"Signore,  she  is  always  there,  in  her  room,  in  the 
dark." 

"And  you  have  heard  nothing?" 

"Signore,  I  have  heard  the  Padrona  moving." 

The  hand  of  Artois  dropped  down.  He  was  invaded 
by  a  sense  of  relief  that  was  almost  overwhelming. 

"You  are  certain?" 

"Si,  Signore.  The  Padrona  is  walking  up  and  down 

595 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

the  room.  When  Peppina  screamed  out  I  heard  the 
Padrona  move.  And  then  I  heard  her  walking  up  and 
down  the  room." 

He  looked  again  at  the  death-charm  and  went  out. 
Vere  stood  for  a  moment.  Then  she,  too,  went  suddenly 
away,  and  Artois  heard  her  light  footstep  retreating 
from  him  towards  the  terrace. 

He  understood  her  silent  and  abrupt  departure.  His 
fear  had  been  hers.  His  relief  was  hers,  too,  and  she  was 
moved  to  hide  it.  He  was  left  alone  with  the  death-charm. 

He  sat  down  by  the  table  on  which  it  lay  among  the 
bright  toys  of  silver.  Released  from  his  great  fear,  re- 
leased from  his  undertaking  to  force  his  way  into  the 
darkness  of  that  room  which  had  been  silent,  he  seemed 
suddenly  to  regain  his  identity,  to  be  put  once  more 
into  possession  of  his  normal  character.  He  had  gone 
out  from  it.  He  returned  to  it.  The  cloud  of  supersti- 
tion, in  which  even  he  had  been  for  a  moment  involved 
with  Vere  and  with  the  servants,  evaporated,  and  he 
was  able  to  smile  secretly  at  them  and  at  himself.  Yet 
while  he  smiled  thus  secretly,  and  while  he  looked  at 
the  lemon  with  its  perforating  nails,  he  realized  his  own 
smallness,  helplessness,  the  smallness  and  the  helpless- 
ness of  every  man,  as  he  had  never  realized  them  before. 
And  he  realized  also  something,  much,  of  what  it  would 
have  meant  to  him,  had  the  body  of  his  fear  been  the 
body  of  a  truth,  not  of  a  lie. 

If  death  had  really  come  into  the  Casa  del  Mare  that 
night  with  the  death-charm! 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  table,  lifted  the 
death-charm  from  among  the  silver  ornaments,  held  it, 
kept  it  in  his  hand,  which  he  laid  upon  his  knee. 

If  Ruffo  had  carried  death  in  his  boy's  hand  over  the 
sea  to  the  island,  had  carried  death  to  Hermione! 

Artois  tried  to  imagine  that  house  without  Hermione, 
his  life  without  Hermione. 

596 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

For  a  long  time  he  sat,  always  holding  the  death- 
charm  in  his  hand,  always  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it, 
until  at  last  in  it,  as  in  a  magic  mirror,  among  the  scars 
of  its  burning,  and  among  the  nails  that  pierced  it,  as 
the  woman  who  had  fashioned  it,  and  fired  it,  and  mut- 
tered witch's  words  over  it,  longed  to  pierce  the  heart 
of  her  enemy,  he  saw  scenes  of  the  past,  and  shadowy, 
moving  figures.  He  saw  among  the  scars  and  among 
the  nails  Hermione  and  himself! 

They  were  in  Paris,  at  a  table  strewn  with  flowers. 
That  was  the  first  scene  in  the  magic  mirror  of  the 
fattura  delta  morte,  the  scene  in  which  they  met  for  the 
first  time.  Hermione  regarded  him  almost  with  timid- 
ity. And  he  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  because  she  had 
no  beauty. 

Then  they  were  in  another  part  of  Paris,  in  his  "Mo- 
rocco slipper  of  a  room,"  crammed  with  books,  and  dim 
with  Oriental  incense  and  tobacco  smoke,  his  room  red 
and  yellow,  tinted  with  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  East. 
And  he  turned  to  her  for  sympathy,  and  he  received  it 
in  full  measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over.  He 
told  her  his  thought,  and  he  told  her  his  feelings,  his 
schemes,  his  struggles,  his  moments  of  exaltation,  his 
depressions.  Something,  much  indeed  of  him  was  hers, 
the  egotistic  part  of  a  man  that  does  really  give, 
but  that  keeps  back  much,  and  that  seeks  much  more 
than  it  gives.  And  what  he  sought  she  eagerly,  gen- 
erously gave,  with  both  hands,  never  counting  any 
cost.  Always  she  was  giving  and  always  he  was 
taking. 

Then  they  were  in  London,  in  another  room  full  of 
books.  He  stood  by  a  fire,  and  she  was  seated  with  a 
bundle  of  letters  in  her  lap.  And  his  heart  was  full  of 
something  that  was  like  anger,  and  of  a  dull  and  smoul- 
dering jealousy.  And  hers  was  full  of  a  new  and  won- 
derful beauty,  a  piercing  joy. 

597 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

He  sighed  deeply.  He  stirred.  He  looked  up  for  a 
moment  and  listened. 

But  all  the  house  was  silent.  And  again  he  bent  over 
the  death-charm. 

He  stood  by  a  door.  Outside  was  the  hum  of  traffic, 
inside  a  narrow  room.  And  now  in  the  magic  mirror 
a  third  figure  showed  itself,  a  figure  of  youth  incarnate, 
brave,  passionate,  thrilling  with  the  joy  of  life.  He 
watched  it,  how  coldly,  although  he  felt  its  charm,  the 
rays  of  fire  that  came  from  it,  as  sunbeams  come  from 
the  sun!  And  apprehension  stirred  within  him.  And 
presently  in  the  night,  by  ebony  waters,  and  by  strange 
and  wandering  lights,  and  under  unquiet  stars,  he  told 
Hermione  something  of  his  fear. 

Africa — and  the  hovering  flies,  and  the  dreadful  feel- 
ing that  death's  hands  were  creeping  about  his  body  and 
trying  to  lay  hold  of  it !  A  very  lonely  creature  lay  there 
in  the  mirror,  with  the  faint  shadow  of  a  palm-leaf  shift- 
ing and  swaying  upon  the  ghastly  whiteness  of  its  face — • 
himself,  in  the  most  desolate  hour  of  his  life.  As  he 
gazed  he  was  transported  to  the  City  of  the  Mosques. 
The  years  rolled  back.  He  felt  again  all,  or  nearly  all, 
that  he  had  felt  then  of  helplessness,  abandonment,  de- 
spair. It  was  frightful  to  go  out  thus  alone,  to  be  ex- 
tinguished in  the  burning  heat  of  Africa,  and  laid  in 
that  arid  soil,  where  the  vipers  slid  through  the  hot 
crevices  of  the  earth,  and  the  scorpions  bred  in  the  long 
days  of  the  summer.  Now  it  was  evening.  He  heard 
the  call  to  prayer,  that  wailing,  wonderful  cry  which 
saluted  the  sinking  sun. 

He  remembered  exactly  how  it  had  come  into  his  ears 
through  the  half-opened  window,  the  sensation  of  re- 
moteness, of  utter  solitude,  which  it  had  conveyed  to 
him.  An  Arab  had  passed  under  the  window,  singing  in 
a  withdrawn  and  drowsy  voice  a  plaintive  song  of  the 
East  which  had  mingled  with  the  call  to  prayer.  And 

598 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

then  he,  Artois,  being  quite  alone,  had  given  way  in  his 
great  pain  and  weakness.  He  remembered  feeling  the 
tears  slipping  over  his  cheeks,  one  following  another, 
quickly,  quickly.  It  had  seemed  as  if  they  would  never 
stop,  as  if  there  would  always  be  tears  to  flow  from  those 
sources  deep  within  his  stricken  body,  his  stricken  soul. 

He  looked  into  the  mirror.  The  door  of  the  room  was 
opened.  A  woman  stood  upon  the  threshold.  The  sick 
man  turned  upon  his  pillow.  He  gazed  towards  the 
woman.  And  his  tears  ceased.  He  was  no  longer  alone. 
His  friend  had  come  from  her  garden  of  Paradise  to 
draw  him  back  to  life. 

In  the  magic  mirror  of  the  fattura  delta  morte  other 
scenes  formed  themselves,  were  clearly  visible  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  dispersed,  dissolved — till  scenes  of  the  island 
came,  till  the  last  scene  in  the  mirror  dawned  faintly 
before  his  eyes. 

He  saw  a  dark  room,  and  a  woman  more  desolate  than 
he  had  been  when  he  lay  alone  with  the  shadow  of  the 
palm-tree  shifting  on  his  face,  and  heard  the  call  to 
prayer.  He  saw  Hermione  in  her  room  in  the  Casa  del 
Mare  that  night,  after  she  knew. 

Suddenly  he  put  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

Those  were  the  first  tears  his  eyes  had  known  since 
that  evening  in  Africa  years  and  years  ago. 

He  laid  the  death-charm  down  once  more  among  the 
silver  toys.  But  he  still  looked  at  it  as  he  sat  back  now 
in  his  chair,  waiting  for  Gaspare's  return. 

He  gazed  at  the  symbol  of  death.  And  he  began  to 
think  how  strangely  appropriate  was  its  presence  that 
night  in  the  Casa  del  Mare,  how  almost  more  than 
strange  had  been  its  bringing  there  by  Ruffo — if  indeed 
Ruffo  had  brought  it,  as  Gaspare  declared.  For  the 
little  green  lemon  represented  a  heart  pierced.  And 
Ruffo,  all  ignorantly  and  unconsciously,  had  pierced  the 
heart  of  Hermione. 

599 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Artois  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened  that  day  at 
Mergellina,  but  he  divined  that  it  was  Ruffo  who,  with- 
out words,  had  told  Hermione  the  truth.  It  must  have 
been  Ruffo,  in  whom  the  dead  man  lived  again.  And, 
going  beyond  the  innocent  boy,  deep  into  the  shadows 
where  lies  so  much  of  truth,  Artois  saw  the  murdered 
man  stirring  from  his  sleep,  unable  to  rest  because  of 
the  lie  that  had  been  coiled  around  his  memory,  making 
it  what  it  should  not  be.  Perhaps  only  the  dead  know 
the  true,  the  sacred  passion  for  justice.  Perhaps  only 
they  are  indifferent  to  everything  save  truth,  they  who 
know  the  greatest  truth  of  all. 

And  Artois  saw  Maurice  Delarey,  the  gay,  the  full- 
blooded  youth,  grown  stern  in  the  halls  of  death,  unable 
to  be  at  peace  until  she  who  had  most  loved  him  knew 
him  at  last  as  he  had  been  in  life. 

As  no  one  else  would  tell  Hermione  the  truth,  the  dead 
man  himself,  speaking  through  his  son,  the  fruit  of  his  sin, 
had  told  her  the  truth  that  day.  He,  too,  had  been  perhaps 
a  spirit  in  prison,  through  all  these  years  since  his  death. 

Artois  saw  him  in  freedom. 

And  at  that  moment  Artois  felt  that  in  the  world  there 
was  only  one  thing  that  was  perfectly  beautiful,  and 
that  thing  was  absolute  truth.  Its  knowledge  must 
make  Hermione  greater. 

But  now  she  was  hanging  on  her  cross. 

If  he  could  only  comfort  her! 

As  she  had  come  to  him  in  Africa,  he  longed  now  to  go 
to  her.  She  had  saved  him  from  the  death  of  the  body. 
If  only  he  could  save  her  from  another  and  more  terrible. 
death— the  death  of  the  spirit  that  believes  and  trusts 
in  life! 

He  had  been  absorbed  in  thought  and  unconscious  of 
time.     Now  he  looked  up,  he  was  aware  of  things.     He 
listened.     Surely  Gaspare  had  been  away  a  long  while 
And  Vere — where  was  she  ? 

600 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

He  had  a  strange  desire  to  see  Ruffo  now.  Something 
new  and  mystic  had  been  born,  or  had  for  the  first  time 
made  itself  apparent,  within  him  to-night.  And  he 
knew  that  to-night  he  would  look  at  Ruffo  as  he  had 
never  looked  at  him  before. 

He  got  up  and,  leaving  the  death-charm  lying  on  the 
table,  went  to  the  door.  There  he  hesitated.  Should  he 
go  to  the  terrace,  to  Vere  ?  or  should  he  go  up-stairs  to 
that  dark  room  and  try  to  speak  to  his  friend?  Or 
should  he  go  out  to  the  cliff,  to  seek  Gaspare  and 
Ruffo? 

Ruffo  drew  him.     He  had  to  go  to  the  cliff. 

He  went  out  by  the  front  door.  At  first  he  thought 
of  descending  at  once  by  the  steps  to  the  Pool  of  San 
Francesco.  But  he  changed  his  mind  and  went  instead 
to  the  bridge. 

He  looked  over  into  the  Pool. 

It  was  a  very  clear  night.  San  Francesco's  light  was 
burning  brightly.  Very  sincerely  it  was  burning  be- 
neath the  blessing  hands  of  the  Saint.  A  ray  of  gold 
that  came  from  it  lay  upon  the  darkness  of  the  Pool, 
stealing  through  the  night  a  little  way,  as  if  in  an  effort 
to  touch  the  Casa  del  Mare. 

In  the  Pool  there  was  one  boat.  Artois  saw  no  one 
by  the  sea's  edge,  heard  no  voices  there,  and  he  turned 
towards  the  crest  of  the  island,  to  the  seat  where  Vere 
so  often  went  at  night,  and  where  Hermione,  too,  had 
often  sought  out  Ruffo. 

Gaspare  and  Ruffo  were  near  it.  Almost  directly 
he  saw  their  forms,  relieved  against  the  dimness  but  not 
deep  darkness  of  the  night,  and  heard  their  voices  talk- 
ing. As  he  went  towards  them  Gaspare  was  speaking 
vehemently.  He  threw  up  one  arm  in  a  strong,  even, 
and  excited  gesture,  and  was  silent.  Then  Artois  heard 
Ruffo  say,  in  a  voice  that,  though  respectful  and  almost 
deprecatory,  was  yet  firm  like  a  man's  : 

60 1 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  cannot  take  it  away,  Gaspare.  When  I  go  home 
my  mamma  will  ask  me  if  I  have  put  it  in  the  house." 

"Dio  mio!"  cried  Gaspare.  "But  you  have  put  it  in 
the  house !  Is  it  not  there — is  it  not  there  now  to  bring 
death  upon  the  Signora,  upon  the  Signorina,  upon  us 
all?" 

"It  was  made  for  Peppina.  My  mamma  made  it 
only  against  Peppina,  because  she  has  brought  evil  into 
our  house.  It  will  hurt  only  Peppina!  It  will  kill  only 
Peppina!" 

He  spoke  now  with  a  vehemence  and  passion  almost 
equal  to  Gaspare's.  Artois  stood  still.  They  did  not 
see  him.  They  were  absorbed  in  their  conversation. 

"It  will  not  hurt  the  Signora  or  the  Signorina.  The 
fattura  delta  morte  —  it  is  to  harm  Peppina.  Has  she 
not  done  us  injury?  Has  she  not  taken  my  Patrigno 
from  my  mamma?  Has  she  not  made  him  mad?  Is 
it  not  for  her  that  he  has  been  in  prison,  and  that  he  has 
left  my  mamma  without  a  soldo  in  the  house?  The 
Signora — she  has  been  good  to  me  and  my  mamma. 
It  is  she  who  sent  my  mamma  money — twenty  lire!  I 
respect  the  Signora  as  I  respect  my  mamma.  Only 
to-day,  only  this  very  day  she  came  to  Mergellina,  she 
came  to  see  my  mamma.  And  when  she  knew  that  my 
Patrigno  was  let  out  of  prison,  when  I  cried  out  at  the 
door  that  he  was  coming,  the  Signora  was  so  glad  for 
us  that  she  looked — she  looked — Madre  di  Dio!  she  was 
all  white,  she  was  shaking — she  was  worse  than  my  poor 
mamma.  And  when  I  came  to  her,  and  when  I  called 
out,  'Signora!  Signora!'  you  should  have  seen!  She 
opened  her  eyes!  She  gave  me  such  a  look!  And  then 
my  Patrigno  came  in  at  the  door,  and  the  Signora — she 
went  away.  I  was  going  to  follow  her,  but  she  put  out 
her  hand — so,  to  make  me  stay — she  wanted  me  to 
stay  with  my  mamma.  And  she  went  down  the  stairs 
all  trembling  because  my  Patrigno  was  let  out  of  prison. 

602 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Per  dio!  She  has  a  good  heart.  She  is  an  angel.  For 
the  Signora  I  would  die.  For  the  Signora  I  would  do 
anything!  I — you  say  I  would  kill  the  Signora!  Would 
I  kill  my  mamma?  Would  I  kill  the  Madonna?  La 
Bruna — would  I  kill  her?  To  me  the  Signora  is  as  my 
mamma!  I  respect  the  Signora  as  I  respect  my  mamma. 
Ecco!" 

"The  fattura  delta  morte  will  bring  evil  on  the  house, 
it  will  bring  death  into  the  house." 

Gaspare  spoke  again,  and  his  voice  was  dogged  with 
superstition,  but  it  was  less  vehement  than  before. 

"Already — who  knows  what  it  has  brought?  Who 
knows  what  evil  it  has  done  ?  All  the  house  is  sad  to- 
night, all  the  house  is  terrible  to-night." 

"It  is  Peppina  who  has  looked  on  the  house  with 
the  evil  eye,"  said  Ruffo.  "It  is  Peppina  who  has 
brought  trouble  to  the  house." 

There  was  a  silence.     Then  Gaspare  said: 

"No,  it  is  not  Peppina." 

As  he  spoke  Artois  saw  him  stretch  out  his  hand, 
but  gently,  towards  Ruffo. 

"Who  is  it,  then?"  said  Ruffo. 

Moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse  to  interpose,  Artois 
called  out: 

"Gaspare!" 

He  saw  the  two  figures  start. 

"Gaspare!"  he  repeated,  coming  up  to  them. 

"Signore!     What  is  it?     Has  the  Signora — " 

"I  have  not  heard  her.     I  have  not  seen  her." 

"Then  what  is  it,  Signore?" 

"Good-evening,  Ruffo,"  Artois  said,  looking  at  the 
boy. 

"Good-evening,  Signore." 

Ruffo  took  off  his  cap.  He  was  going  to  put  it  back 
on  his  dark  hair,  when  Artois  held  his  arm. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Ruffo!" 
39  603 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  boy  looked  surprised,  but  met  fearlessly  the  eyes 
that  were  gazing  into  his. 

"Va  bene,  Ruffo." 

Artois  released  his  arm,  and  Ruffo  put  on  his  cap. 

"  I  heard  you  talking  of  the  fattura  delta  morte,"  Artois 
said. 

Ruffo  reddened  slightly. 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Your  mother  made  it?" 

Ruffo  did  not  answer.  Gaspare  stood  by,  watching 
and  listening  with  deep,  half-suspicious  attention. 

"I  heard  you  say  so." 

"Si,  Signore.     My  mamma  made  it." 

"And  told  you  to  bring  it  to  the  island  and  put  it  in 
the  house  to-night?" 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  Peppina  your  mother 
wished  to  do  evil?" 

"Si,  Signore,  quite  sure.  Peppina  is  a  bad  girl.  She 
made  my  Patrigno  mad.  She  brought  trouble  to  our 
house." 

"You  love  the  Signora,  don't  you,  Ruffo?" 

His  face  changed  and  grew  happier  at  once. 

"Si,  Signore.     I  love  the  Signora  and  the  Signorina." 

He  would  not  leave  out  Vere.  Artois's  heart  warmed 
to  him  for  that. 

"Ruffo—" 

While  he  had  been  on  the  crest  of  the  island  an  idea 
had  come  to  him.  At  first  he  had  put  it  from  him. 
Now,  suddenly,  he  caressed  it,  he  resolved  to  act  on  its 
prompting. 

"Ruffo,  the  Signora  is  in  the  house." 

"Si,  Signore." 

"I  don't  think  she  is  very  well.  I  don't  think  she 
will  leave  the  house  to-night.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
see  her?" 

604 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"Signore,  I  always  like  to  see  the  Signora." 

"And  I  think  she  likes  to  see  you.     I  know  she  does." 

"Si,  Signore.  The  Signora  is  always  glad  when  I 
come." 

He  spoke  without  conceit  or  vanity,  with  utterly  sin- 
cere simplicity. 

"Go  to  the  house  and  ask  to  see  her  now — Gaspare 
will  take  you." 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  at  Gaspare,  and  Gaspare  under- 
stood. 

"Come  on,  Ruffo!" 

Gaspare's  voice  was  rough,  arbitrary,  but  the  eyes 
that  he  turned  on  Ruffo  were  full  of  the  almost  melting 
gentleness  that  Hermione  had  seen  in  them  sometimes 
and  that  she  had  always  loved. 

"Come  on,  Ruffmo!" 

He  walked  away  quickly,  almost  sternly,  towards  the 
house.  And  Ruffo  followed  him. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

ARTOIS  did  not  go  with  them.  Once  again  he  was 
governed  by  an  imperious  feeling  that  held  him  inactive, 
the  feeling  that  it  was  not  for  him  to  approach  Hermione 
— that  others  might  draw  near  to  her,  but  that  he  dared 
not.  The  sensation  distressed  and  almost  humiliated 
him.  It  came  upon  him  like  a  punishment  for  sin,  and 
as  a  man  accepts  a  punishment  which  he  is  conscious 
of  deserving  Artois  accepted  it. 

So  now  he  waited  alone  on  the  crest  of  the  island, 
looking  towards  the  Casa  del  Mare. 

What  would  be  the  result  of  this  strange  and  daring 
embassy  ? 

He  was  not  long  to  be  in  doubt. 

' '  Signore !     Signore ! ' ' 

Gaspare's  voice  was  calling  him  from  somewhere  in 
the  darkness. 

"Signore." 

"I  am  coming." 

There  had  been  a  thrill  of  emotion  in  the  appeal  sent 
out  to  him.  He  hurried  towards  the  house.  He  crossed 
the  bridge.  When  he  was  on  it  he  heard  the  splash  of 
oars  below  him  in  the  Pool,  but  he  took  no  heed  of  it. 
What  were  the  fishermen  to  him  to-night?  Before  the 
house  door  he  met  Gaspare  and  Ruffo. 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  Signora  is  not  in  her  room,  Signore." 

"Not — ?     How  do  you  know?     Is  the  door  open?" 

"Si,  Signore.  The  Signora  has  gone !  And  'the  jattura 
delta  morte  has  gone." 

606 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

"The  fattura  delta  morte  has  gone!"  repeated  Ruffo. 

The  repetition  of  the  words  struck  a  chill  to  the  heart 
of  Artois.  Again  he  was  beset  by  superstition.  He 
caught  it  from  these  children  of  the  South,  who  stared 
at  him  now  with  their  grave  and  cloudy  eyes. 

"Perhaps  one  of  the  servants — "  he  began. 

"No,  Signore.  I  have  "asked  them.  And  they  would 
not  dare  to  touch  it." 

"The  Signorina?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"She  is  in  the  garden.  She  has  been  there  all  the 
time.  She  does  not  know" — he  lowered  his  voice  al- 
most to  a  whisper — "she  does  not  know  about  the  Sig- 
nora  and  the  fattura  della  morte" 

"We  must  not  let  her  know — 

He  stopped.  Suddenly  his  ears  seemed  full  of  the 
sound  of  plashing  oars  in  water.  Yet  he  heard  nothing. 

"Gaspare,"  he  said,  quickly,  "have  you  looked  every- 
where for  the  Signora?" 

"I  have  looked  in  the  house,  Signore.  I  have  been 
on  the  terrace  and  to  the  Signorina  in  the  garden. 
Then  I  came  to  tell  you.  I  thought  you  should  know 
about  the  Signora  and  the  fattura  della  morte." 

Artois  felt  that  it  was  this  fact  of  the  disappearance 
of  the  death-charm  which  for  the  moment  paralyzed 
Gaspare's  activities.  What  stirring  of  ancient  super- 
stition was  in  the  Sicilian's  heart  he  did  not  know,  but 
he  knew  that  now  his  own  time  of  action  was  come. 
No  longer  could  he  delegate  to  others  the  necessary 
deed.  And  with  this  knowledge  his  nature  seemed  to 
change.  An  ardor  that  was  almost  vehement  with 
youth,  and  that  was  hard-fibred  with  manly  strength 
and  resolution,  woke  up  in  him. 

Again  his  ears  were  full  of  the  sound  of  oars  in  water. 

"Ruffo,"  he  said,  "will  you  obey  me?" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 
607 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Si,  Signore." 

"Go  into  the  garden.  Stay  with  the  Signorina  till  I 
come." 

"Si,  Signore." 

"If  it  is  a  long  time,  if  the  Signorina  is  afraid,  if  she 
wants  to  do  anything,  you  are  to  say  that  Don  Emilio 
said  she  was  not  to  be  afraid,  and  that  she  was  to  wait." 

"Si,  Signore." 

The  boy  paused,  looking  steadily  at  Artois,  then, 
seeing  that  he  had  finished,  turned  away  and  went  softly 
into  the  house. 

"Gaspare,  come  with  me." 

Gaspare  said  nothing,  but  followed  him  down  to  the 
foot  of  the  cliff.  One  of  the  island  boats  was  gone. 
When  Gaspare  saw  that  he  ran  to  pull  in  the  other. 
He  held  out  his  arm  to  help  Artois  into  the  boat,  then 
took  the  oars,  standing  up  and  looking  before  him  into 
the  night. 

"Row  towards  the  village,  Gaspare." 

"Si,  Signore." 

At  that  moment  Gaspare  understood  much  of  what 
was  in  Artois 's  mind.  He  relied  upon  Artois.  He  trust- 
ed him— and  this  fact,  of  Gaspare's  trust  and  reliance 
upon  him,  added  now  to  the  feeling  of  ardor  that  had 
risen  up  in  Artois,  gave  him  courage,  helped  to  banish 
completely  that  punishing  sensation  which  had  con- 
demned him  to  keep  away  from  Hermione  as  one  un- 
worthy to  approach  her,  to  touch  even  the  hem  of  her 
grief. 

No  need  to  tell  Gaspare  to  row  quickly.  With  all  his 
strength  he  forced  the  boat  along  through  the  calm  sea. 

"Keep  near  the  shore,  Gaspare!" 

"Si,  Signore." 

Only  the  first  quarter  of  the  young  moon  was  visible 
in  the  sky.  It  cast  but  a  thin  and  distant  glint  of  silver 
upon  the  waters.  By  the  near  shore  the  dimness  of  this 

608 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

hour  was  unbroken  by  any  light,  unstirred  by  any  sound 
except  the  withdrawn  and  surreptitious  murmur  of  the 
sea.  The  humped  shapes  of  the  low  yellow  rocks 
showed  themselves  faintly  like  shapes  of  beasts  asleep. 
In  the  distance,  lifted  above  the  sea,  two  or  three  flames 
shone  faintly.  They  were  shed  by  lamps  or  candles  set 
in  the  windows  of  the  fishermen's  cottages  in  the  vil- 
lage. 

Had  Hermione  gone  to  the  village? 

She  might  have  left  the  island  with  some  definite  pur- 
pose, or  moved  by  a  blind  impulse  to  get  away  and  be 
alone.  Artois  could  not  tell.  But  she  had  taken  the 
fattura  delta  morte. 

He  wondered  whether  she  knew  its  meaning,  with 
what  sinister  intention  it  had  been  made.  Something  in 
the  little  worthless  thing  must  have  attracted  her,  have 
fascinated  her,  or  she  would  not  have  taken  it.  In  her 
distress  of  mind,  in  her  desire  for  solitude,  she  would 
have  hastened  away  and  left  it  lying  where  it  was. 

Perhaps  she  had  a  purpose  in  leaving  the  island  with 
the  fattura  della  morte. 

Her  taking  of  it  began  to  seem  to  Artois,  as  it  had 
evidently  seemed  to  Gaspare,  a  fact  of  profound  sig- 
nificance. His  imagination,  working  with  an  almost 
diseased  rapidity  and  excitement,  brought  before  him  a 
series  of  scenes  in  which  the  death-charm  figured  as 
symbol.  In  one  of  these  there  were  two  women — Her- 
mione and  Maddalena. 

Hermione  might  have  set  out  on  some  wild  quest  to 
Mergellina.  He  remembered  the  face  at  the  window, 
and  knew  that  to-night  everything  was  possible. 

"Row  quickly,  Gaspare!" 

Gaspare  bent  almost  furiously  to  the  oars.  Then 
sharply  he  turned  his  head. 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  can  see  the  boat!     I  can  see  the  Signora!" 
609 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

The  words  struggled  out  on  a  long  breath  that  made 
his  broad  chest  heave.  Instinctively  Artois  put  his 
hands  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat  on  either  side  of  him, 
moving  as  if  to  stand  up. 

"Take  care,  Signore!" 

"I'd  forgotten — "  He  leaned  forward,  searching  the 
night.  "Where  is  the  Signora?" 

"There — in  front!  She  is  rowing  to  the  village.  No, 
she  has  turned." 

He  stopped  rowing. 

"The  Signora  has  seen,  or  she  has  heard,  and  she  is 
going  in  to  shore." 

"But  there  are  only  the  rocks." 

"The  Signora  is  going  in  to  the  Palazzo  of  the  Spirits." 

"The  Palazzo  of  the  Spirits?"  Artois  repeated. 

"Si,  Signore." 

Gaspare  turned  and  looked  again  into  the  darkness. 

"I  cannot  see  the  Signora  any  more." 

"Follow  the  Signora,  Gaspare.  If  she  has  gone  to 
the  Palazzo  of  the  Spirits  row  in  there." 

"Si,  Signore." 

He  drew  the  oars  again  strongly  through  the  water. 

Artois  remembered  a  blinding  storm  that  had  crashed 
over  a  mountain  village  in  Sicily  long  ago,  a  flash  of 
lightning  which  had  revealed  to  him  the  gaunt  portal 
of  a  palace  that  seemed  abandoned,  a  strip  of  black 
cloth,  the  words  "Lutto  in  famiglia."  They  had  seemed 
to  him  prophetic  words. 

And  now — ? 

In  the  darkness  he  saw  another  darkness,  the  strange 
and  broken  outline  of  the  ruined  palace  by  the  sea,  once, 
perhaps,  the  summer  home  of  some  wealthy  Roman, 
now  a  mere  shell  visited  in  the  lonely  hours  by  the  in- 
satiate waves.  Were  Hermione  and  he  to  meet  here? 
To-day  he  had  thought  of  his  friend  as  a  spirit  that  had 
been  long  in  prison.  Now  he  came  to  the  Palace  of  the 

610 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Spirits  to  face  her  truth  with  his.  The  Palace  of  the 
Spirits!  The  name  suggested  the  very  nakedness  of 
truth.  Well,  let  it  be  so,  let  the  truth  stand  there 
naked.  Again,  mingling  with  a  certain  awe,  there  rose 
up  in  him  a  strong  ardor,  a  courage  that  was  vehement, 
that  longed  at  last  to  act.  And  it  seemed  to  him  sud- 
denly that  for  many  years,  through  all  the  years  that 
divided  Hermione  and  him  from  the  Sicilian  life,  they 
had  been  held  in  leash,  waiting  for  the  moment  of  this 
encounter.  Now  the  leash  slackened.  They  were  being 
freed.  And  for  what? 

Gaspare  plunged  his  right  oar  into  the  sea  alone. 
The  boat  swung  round  obediently,  heading  for  the  shore. 

One  of  the  faint  lights  that  gleamed  in  the  village  was 
extinguished. 

"Signore,  the  Signora  has  left  the  boat!" 

"Si?" 

' '  Madonna !  She  has  let  it  go !  She  has  left  it  to  the 
sea!" 

He  backed  water.  A  moment  later  the  little  boat  in 
which  Vere  loved  to  go  out  alone  grated  against  theirs. 

"Madonna!  To  leave  the  boat  like  that!"  exclaimed 
Gaspare,  bending  to  catch  the  tow-rope.  "The  Signora 
is  not  safe  to-night.  The  Signora's  saint  will  not  look 
on  her  to-night." 

"Put  me  ashore,  Gaspare." 

"Si,  Signore." 

The  boat  passed  before  the  facade  of  the  palace. 

Artois  knew  the  palace  well  by  day.  This  was  the 
first  time  he  had  come  to  it  by  night.  In  daylight  it 
was  a  small  and  picturesque  ruin  washed  by  the  laughing 
sea,  lonely  but  scarcely  sad.  Leaping  from  its  dark  and 
crumbling  walls  the  fisher-boys  often  plunged  into  the 
depths  below;  or  they  lay  upon  the  broad  sills  of  the 
gaping  window-spaces  to  dry  themselves  in  the  sun. 
Men  came  with  rods  and  lines  to  fish  from  its  deserted 

611 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

apartments,  through  which,  when  rough  weather  was 
at  hand,  the  screaming  sea-birds  flew.  The  waves  played 
frivolously  enough  in  its  recesses.  And  their  voices  were 
heard  against  the  slimy  and  defiant  stones  calling  to 
each  other  merrily,  as  perhaps  once  the  voices  of  revellers 
long  dead  called  in  the  happy  hours  of  a  vanished  vil- 
leggiatura. 

But  the  night  wrought  on  it,  in  it,  and  about  it  change. 
Its  solitude  then  became  desolation,  the  darkness  of  its 
stones  a  blackness  that  was  tragic,  its  ruin  more  than  a 
suggestion,  the  decisive  picture  of  despair. 

At  its  base  was  a  line  of  half-discovered  window-spaces, 
the  lower  parts  of  which  had  become  long  since  the  prey 
of  the  waves.  Above  it  were  more  window-spaces,  fully 
visible,  and  flanking  a  high  doorway,  once,  no  doubt, 
connected  with  a  staircase,  but  now  giving  upon  mid- 
air. Formerly  there  had  been  another  floor,  but  this 
had  fallen  into  decay  and  disappeared,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  one  small  and  narrow  chamber  situated  imme- 
diately over  the  doorway.  Isolated,  for  there  was  no 
means  of  approach  to  it,  this  chamber  had  something  of 
the  aspect  of  a  low  and  sombre  tower  sluggishly  lifting 
itself  towards  the  sky.  The  palace  was  set  upon  rock 
and  flanked  by  rocks.  Round  about  it  grass  grew  to 
the  base  of  a  high  cliff  at  perhaps  two  hundred  yards 
distance  from  it.  And  here  and  there  grass  and  tufts 
of  rank  herbage  pushed  in  its  crevices,  proclaiming  the 
triumph  of  time  to  exulting  winds  and  waters. 

As  Gaspare  rowed  in  cautiously  and  gently  to  this 
deserted  place,  to  which  from  the  land  no  road,  no  foot- 
path led,  he  stared  at  the  darkness  of  the  palace  with 
superstitious  awe,  then  at  the  small,  familiar  boat,  which 
followed  in  their  wake  because  he  held  the  tow-rope. 

"Signore,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid!" 

"You— Gaspare!" 

"I  am  afraid  for  the  Signora.  Why  should  she  come 
612 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

here  all  alone  with  the  jattura  delta  morte?     I  am  afraid 
for  the  Signora." 

The  boat  touched  the  edge  of  the  rock  to  the  right  of 
the  palace. 

"And  where  has  the  Signora  gone,  Signore ?  I  cannot 
see  her,  and  I  cannot  hear  her." 

He  lifted  up  his  hand.  They  listened.  But  they 
heard  only  the  sucking  murmur  of  the  sea  against  the 
rocks  perforated  with  little  holes,  and  in  distant,  aban- 
doned chambers  of  the  palace. 

"Where  has  the  Signora  gone?"  Gaspare  repeated,  in 
a  whisper. 

"I  will  find  the  Signora,"  said  Artois. 

He  got  up.  Gaspare  held  his  arm  to  assist  him  to 
the  shore. 

"Thank  you." 

He  was  on  the  rocks. 

"Gaspare,"  he  said,  "wait  here.  Lie  off  the  shore 
close  by  till  I  come  back." 

"Si,  Signore." 

Artois  hesitated,  looking  at  Gaspare. 

"I  will  persuade  the  Signora  to  come  back  with  us," 
he  said. 

"Si,  Signore.  You  must  persuade  the  poor  Signora. 
The  poor  Signora  is  mad  to-night.  She  gave  me  a 
look—  His  eyes  were  clouded  with  moisture.  "If 
the  poor  Signora  had  not  been  mad  she  could  not  have 
looked  at  me  like  that  —  at  another,  perhaps,  but  not 
at  me." 

It  seemed  as  if  at  last  his  long  reserve  was  breaking 
down.  He  put  up  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"I  did  not  think  that  my  Padrona — " 

He  stopped.  Artois  remembered  the  face  at  the  win- 
dow. He  grasped  Gaspare's  hand. 

"The  Signora  does  not  understand,"  he  said.  "I 
will  make  the  Signora  understand." 

613 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"SI,  Signore,  you  must  make  the  poor  Signora  under- 
stand." 

Gaspare's  hand  held  on  to  the  hand  of  Artois,  and  in 
that  clasp  the  immense  reserve,  that  for  so  many  years 
had  divided,  and  united,  these  two  men,  seemed  to 
melt  like  gold  in  a  crucible  of  fire. 

"I  will  make  the  Signora  understand." 

"And  I  will  wait,  Signore." 

He  pushed  the  boat  off  from  the  rocks.  It  floated 
away,  with  its  sister  boat,  on  the  calm  sea  that  kissed 
the  palace  walls.  He  gave  his  Padrona's  fate  into  the 
hands  of  Artois.  It  was  a  tribute  which  had  upon 
Artois  a  startling  effect. 

It  was  like  a  great  resignation  which  conferred  a  great 
responsibility. 

Always  Gaspare  had  been  very  jealous,  very  proud 
of  his  position  of  authority  as  the  confidential  servant 
and  protector  of  Hermione.  And  now,  suddenly,  and 
very  simply,  he  seemed  to  acknowledge  his  helplessness 
with  Hermione — to  rely  implicitly  upon  the  power  of 
Artois. 

Vere,  too,  in  her  way  had  performed  a  kindred  action. 
She  had  summoned  "Monsieur  Emile"  in  her  great 
trouble.  She  had  put  herself  in  his  hands.  And  he — 
he  had  striven  to  delegate  to  others  the  burden  he  was 
meant  to  bear.  He  had  sent  Vere  to  Hermione.  He 
had  sent  Gaspare  to  her.  He  had  even  sent  Ruffo  to 
her.  Now  he  must  go  himself.  Vere,  Gaspare,  Ruffo — 
they'were  all  looking  to  him.  But  Gaspare's  eyes  were 
most  expressive,  held  more  of  demand  for  him  than  the 
eyes  of  the  girl  and  boy.  For  the  past  was  gathered  in 
Gaspare,  spoke  to  him  in  Gaspare's  voice,  looked  at  him 
from  Gaspare's  eyes,  and  in  Gaspare's  soul  waited  surely 
to  know  how  it  would  be  redeemed. 

He  turned  from  the  sea  and  looked  towards  the 
cliff.  Now  he  had  the  palace  on  his  left  hand.  On  his 

614 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

right,  not  far  off,  was  a  high  bluff  going  almost  sheer 
into  the  sea.  Nevertheless,  access  to  the  village  was 
possible  by  the  strip  of  rocks  beneath  it.  Had  Hermione 
gone  to  the  village  by  the  rocks?  If  she  had,  Gaspare's 
keen  eyes  would  surely  have  seen  her.  Artois  looked 
at  the  blank  wall  of  the  palace.  This  extended  a  little 
way,  then  turned  at  right  angles.  Just  beyond  the 
angle,  in  its  shadow,  there  was  a  low  and  narrow  door- 
way. Artois  moved  along  the  wall,  reached  this  door- 
way, stood  without  it,  and  listened. 

The  grass  here  grew  right  up  to  the  stones  of  the  ruin. 
He  had  come  almost  without  noise.  Before  him  he  saw 
blackness,  the  blackness  of  a  passage  extending  from  the 
orifice  of  the  doorway  to  an  interior  chamber  of  the 
palace.  He  heard  the  peculiar  sound  of  moving  water 
that  is  beset  and  covered  in  by  barriers  of  stone,  a  hol- 
low and  pugnacious  murmur,  as  of  something  so  deter- 
mined that  it  would  be  capable  of  striving  through 
eternity,  yet  of  something  that  was  wistful  and  even 
sad. 

For  an  instant  he  yielded  his  spirit  to  this  sound  of 
eternal  striving.  Then  he  said: 

"Hermione!" 

No  one  answered. 

"Hermione!" 

He  raised  his  voice.     He  almost  called  the  name. 

Still  there  was  no  answer.  Yet  the  silence  seemed 
to  tell  him  that  she  was  near. 

He  did  not  call  again.  He  waited  a  moment,  then 
he  stepped  into  the  passage. 

The  room  to  which  it  led  was  the  central  room,  or 
hall,  of  the  palace — a  vaulted  chamber,  high  and  narrow, 
opening  to  the  sea  at  one  end  by  the  great  doorway 
already  mentioned,  to  the  land  beneath  the  cliff  by  a 
smaller  doorway  at  the  other.  The  faint  light  from 
without,  penetrating  through  these  facing  doorways, 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

showed  to  Artois  a  sort  of  lesser  darkness,  towards  which 
he  walked  slowly,  feeling  his  way  along  the  wall.  When 
he  reached  the  hall  he  again  stood  still,  trying  to  get 
accustomed  to  the  strange  and  eerie  obscurity,  to  pierce 
it  with  his  eyes. 

Now  to  his  left,  evidently  within  the  building,  and 
not  far  from  where  he  stood,  he  heard  almost  loudly 
the  striving  of  the  sea.  He  heard  the  entering  wave 
push  through  some  narrow  opening,  search  round  the 
walls  for  egress,  lift  itself  in  a  vain  effort  to  emerge,  fall 
back  baffled,  retreat,  murmuring  discontent,  only  to  be 
succeeded  by  another  eager  wave.  And  this  startling 
living  noise  of  water  filled  him  with  a  sensation  of  acute 
anxiety,  almost  of  active  fear. 

"Hermione!"  he  said  once  more. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  voice  of  the  water  drowned 
his  voice,  that  it  was  growing  louder,  was  filling  the 
palace  with  an  uproar  that  was  angry. 

' '  Hermione !     Hermione ! ' ' 

He  strove  to  dominate  that  uproar. 

Now,  far  off,  through  the  seaward  opening,  he  saw  a 
streak  of  silver  lying  like  a  thread  upon  the  darkness 
of  the  sea.  And  as  he  saw  it,  the  voice  of  the  waves 
within  the  palace  seemed  to  sink  suddenly  away  almost 
to  silence.  He  did  not  know  why,  but  the  vision  of 
that  very  distant  radiance  of  the  young  and  already 
setting  moon  seemed  to  restore  to  him  abruptly  the  ac- 
curacy of  his  sense  of  hearing. 

He  again  went  forward  a  few  steps,  descending  in 
the  chamber  towards  the  doorway  by  the  worn  remains 
of  an  almost  effaced  staircase.  Reaching  the  bottom, 
he  stood  still  once  more.  On  either  side  of  him  he  could 
faintly  discern  openings  leading  into  other  rooms.  Per- 
haps Hermione,  hearing  him  call,  had  retreated  from 
him  through  one  of  them.  A  sort  of  horror  of  the  situa- 
tion came  upon  him,  as  he  began  thoroughly  to  realize 

616 


the  hatred,  hatred  of  brain,  of  nerves,  of  heart,  that  was 
sarely  quivering  in  Hermione  in  this  moment,  that  was 
driving  her  away  into  the  darkness  from  sound  and 
touch  of  life.  Like  a  wounded  animal  she  was  creeping 
away  from  the  hideous  cruelty  of  men,  creeping  away 
from  it  and  hating  it.  He  remembered  Gaspare's  words 
about  the  look  she  had  cast  upon  perhaps  the  most  truly 
faithful  of  all  her  friends. 

But — she  did  not  know.  And  he,  Artois,  must  tell 
her.  He  must  make  her  see  the  exact  truth  of  the 
years.  He  must  win  her  back  to  reason. 

Reason!  As  the  word  went  through  his  mind  it  chilled 
him,  like  the  passing  of  a  thing  coated  with  ice.  He  had 
been  surely  a  reasonable  man,  and  his  reasonableness 
had  led  him  to  this  hour.  Suddenly  he  saw  himself,  as 
he  had  seen  that  palace  door  by  lightning.  He  saw  him- 
self for  an  instant  lit  by  a  glare  of  fire.  He  looked,  he 
stared  upon  himself. 

And  he  shivered,  as  if  he  had  drawn  close  to,  as  if 
he  had  stood  by,  a  thing  coated  with  ice. 

And  he  dared  to  come  here,  to  pursue  such  a  woman 
as  Hermione!  He  dared  to  think  that  he  could  have 
any  power  over  her,  that  his  ice  could  have  any  power 
over  her  fire!  He  dared  to  think  that!  For  a  moment 
all,  and  far  more  than  all,  his  former  feeling  of  unworthi- 
ness,  of  helplessness,  of  cowardice,  rushed  back  upon 
him.  Then,  abruptly,  there  came  upon  him  this  thought 
— "Vere  believes  I  have  power  over  Hermione."  And 
then  followed  the  thought — "Gaspare  believes  that  I 
have  power  over  her."  And  the  ice  seemed  to  crack. 
He  saw  fissures  in  it.  He  saw  it  melting.  He  saw  the 
"thing"  it  had  covered  appearing,  being  gradually  re- 
vealed as — man. 

' '  Vere  believes  in  my  power.  Gaspare  believes  in  my 
power.  They  are  the  nearest  to  Hermione.  They  know 
her  best.  Their  instincts  about  her  must  be  the  strong- 

617 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

est,  the  truest.  Why  do  they  believe  in  it?  Why  do 
they — why  do  they  know — for  they  must,  they  do  know, 
that  I  have  this  power,  that  I  am  the  one  to  succeed 
where  any  one  else  would  fail?  Why  have  they  left 
Hermione  in  my  hands  to-night?" 

The  ice  was  gone.  The  lightning  flash  lit  up  a  man 
warm  with  the  breath  of  life.  From  the  gaunt  door  of 
the  abandoned  palace  the  strip  of  black  cloth,  the  tragic 
words  above  it,  dropped  down  and  disappeared. 

Suddenly  Artois  knew  why  Vere  believed  in  his  power, 
and  why  Gaspare  believed  in  it — knew  how  their  in- 
stincts had  guided  them,  knew  to  what  secret  knowledge 
— perhaps  not  even  consciously  now  their  knowledge — 
they  had  travelled.  And  he  remembered  the  words  he 
had  written  in  the  book  at  Frisio's  on  the  night  of  the 
storm: 

"La  conscience,  c'est  la  quantite"  de  science  innde  que 
nous  avons  en  nous." 

He  had  written  those  words  hurriedly,  irritably,  mere- 
ly because  he  had  to  write  something,  and  they  chanced 
— he  knew  not  why — to  come  into  his  mind  as  he  took 
hold  of  the  pen.  And  it  was  on  that  night,  surely,  that 
his  conscience — his  innate  knowledge — began  to  betray 
him.  Or — no — it  was  on  that  night  that  he  began  to 
defy  it,  to  deny  it,  to  endeavor  to  cast  it  out. 

For  surely  he  must  have  known,  he  had  known,  what 
Vere  and  Gaspare  innately  knew.  Surely  his  conscience 
had  not  slept  while  theirs  had  been  awake. 

He  did  not  know.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  not 
time  to  decide  this  now.  Very  rapidly  his  mind  had 
worked,  rushing  surely  through  corridors  of  knowledge 
to  gain  an  inner  room.  He  had  only  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  crumbling  staircase  two  or  three  minutes  before 
he  moved  again  decisively,  called  again,  decisively: 

"Hermione!  Hermione!  I  know  you  are  here.  I 
have  come  for  you!" 

618 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

He  went  to  the  right.  On  the  left  was  the  chamber 
which  had  been  taken  possession  of  by  the  sea.  She 
could  not  have  gone  that  way,  unless — he  thought  of 
the  fattura  delta  morte,  and  for  a  moment  the  supersti- 
tious horror  returned  upon  him.  But  he  banished  it. 
That  could  not  be.  His  heart  was  flooded  by  convic- 
tion that  cruelty  has  an  end,  that  the  most  relentless 
fate  fails  at  last  in  its  pursuing,  that  the  fattura  delta 
morte,  if  it  brought  death  with  it,  brought  a  death  that 
was  not  of  the  body,  brought,  perhaps,  a  beautiful  death 
of  something  that  had  lived  too  long. 

He  banished  fear,  and  he  entered  the  chamber  on  the 
right.  It  was  lit  only  by  an  opening  looking  to  the 
sea.  As  he  came  into  it  he  saw  a  tall  thing — like  a  tall 
shadow — pass  close  to  him  and  disappear.  He  saw 
that,  and  he  heard  the  faint  sound  of  material  in  move- 
ment. 

There  was  then  still  another  chamber  on  this  side, 
and  Hermione  had  passed  into  it.  He  followed  her  in 
silence,  came  to  the  doorway  of  it,  looked,  saw  black 
darkness.  There  was  no  other  opening  either  to  sea 
or  land.  In  it  Hermione  had  found  what  she  sought — 
absolute  blackness. 

But  he  had  found  her.  Here  she  could  not  escape 
him. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  remembered  Vere's 
trust  in  him.  He  remembered  Gaspare's  trust.  He  re- 
membered that  Gaspare  was  waiting  in  the  boat  for  him 
— for  them.  He  remembered  the  words  of  Gaspare: 

"You  must  make  the  poor  Signora  understand!" 

That  was  what  he  had  to  do :  to  make  Hermione  under- 
stand. And  that  surely  he  could  do.  Surely  he  had  the 
power  to  do  it  now. 

For  he  himself  understood. 
40 


CHAPTER  XLII 

"HERMIONE!" 

Artois  spoke  to  the  void. 

"Hermione,  because  I  have  followed  you,  because  I 
have  come  here,  don't  think  that  I  am  claiming  any 
right.  Don't  think  that  I  imagine,  because  I  am  your — • 
because  I  am — I  mean  that  it  has  not  been  easy  to  me 
to  come.  It  has  not  been — it  is  not  a  simple  thing  to 
me  to  break  in  upon — upon — " 

He  had  begun  to  speak  with  determination.  He  had 
said  the  very  first  words  with  energy,  almost  with  a 
warm  eagerness,  as  of  one  hurrying  on  to  vital  speech. 
But  suddenly  the  energy  faltered,  the  eagerness  failed, 
the  ring  of  naturalness  died  out  of  the  voice.  It  was  as 
if  a  gust  of  cold  air  had  blown  out  a  flame.  He  paused. 
Then  he  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"You  hate  me  for  coming." 

He  stopped  again.  He  stared  at  the  void,  at  the 
blackness. 

"You  hate  me  for  being  here." 

As  he  said  the  last  words  the  blackness  before  him 
surely  gathered  itself  together,  took  a  form,  the  form  of 
a  wave,  towered  up  as  a  gigantic  wave  towers,  rolled 
upon  him  to  overwhelm  him.  So  acute  was  his  sensation 
of  being  attacked,  of  being  in  peril,  that  his  body  was 
governed  by  it  and  instinctively  shrank,  trying  to  make 
itself  small  that  it  might  oppose  as  little  resistance  as 
possible  to  the  oncoming  foe. 

For  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  wave  of  blackness  was 
620 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  wave  of  Hermione's  present  hatred,  that  it  came 
upon  him,  that  it  struck  him,  that  it  stunned  and  almost 
blinded  him,  then  divided,  rushing  onwards  he  knew  not 
where,  unspent  and  unsatisfied. 

He  stood  like  a  man  startled  and  confused,  striving  to 
regain  lost  footing,  to  recover  his  normal  condition. 

"You  hate  me." 

Had  he  spoken  the  words  or  merely  thought  them? 
He  did  not  know.  He  was  not  conscious  of  speaking 
them,  yet  he  seemed  to  hear  them.  He  looked  at  the 
blackness.  And  again  it  surely  moved.  Again  he  sure- 
ly saw  it  gathering  itself  together,  and  towering  up  as  a 
wave  towers. 

His  sensation  was  absolutely  one  of  nightmare.  And 
exactly  as  in  a  nightmare  a  man  feels  that  he  is  no  longer 
fully  himself,  has  no  longer  the  power  to  do  any  manly 
or  effective  thing,  so  Artois  felt  now. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  nothing,  and  yet  that 
he  was  hated.  He  turned  and  looked  behind  him,  moved 
by  a  fierce  desire  for  relief.  He  had  not  the  courage  to 
persist  in  confronting  that  blackness  which  took  a  form, 
which  came  upon  him,  which  would  surely  overwhelm  him. 

In  the  distance  he  saw  a  pallor,  where  the  face  of  the 
night  looked  into  the  palace  from  the  sea.  And  he 
heard  the  distant  water.  Still  the  little  waves  were  en- 
tering the  deserted  chambers,  only  to  seek  an  exit  which 
they  could  never  find.  Their  ceaseless  determination 
was  horrible  to  him,  because  it  suggested  to  him  the 
ceaseless  determination  of  those  other  waves  of  black 
hatred,  one  following  another,  from  some  hidden  centre 
of  energy  that  was  inexhaustible.  As  he  listened  the 
sound  of  the  sea  stole  into  his  ears  till  his  brain  was  full 
of  it,  till  he  felt  as  if  into  his  brain,  as  into  those  deserted 
chambers,  the  waves  were  penetrating,  the  waves  of  the 
sea  and  those  dark  waves  which  gathered  themselves 
together  and  flowed  upon  him  from  the  void. 

621 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

For  a  moment  they  possessed  him.  For  a  moment 
he  was  the  prey  of  these  two  oceans. 

Then  he  made  a  violent  effort,  released  himself,  and 
turned  again  to  the  chamber  in  which  Hermione  was 
hidden.  He  faced  the  blackness.  He  was  able  to  do 
that  now.  But  he  was  not  able  to  go  on  speaking  to 
the  woman  who  remained  invisible,  but  whose  influence 
he  was  so  painfully  conscious  of.  He  was  not  able  to 
speak  to  her  because  she  was  surely  speaking  to  him, 
was  communicating  to  him  not  only  her  feeling  towards 
him,  but  also  its  reason,  its  basis,  in  that  wordless  lan- 
guage which  is  only  used  and  comprehended  by  human 
beings  in  moments  of  crisis  and  intense  emotion.  That 
was  what  he  felt,  seemed  to  know. 

He  stood  there,  facing  the  blackness  and  listening, 
while  she  seemed  to  be  telling  him  her  woman's  reasons 
for  her  present  hatred  of  the  man  who  had  been  for  so 
long  a  time  her  closest  friend. 

And  these  reasons  were  not  only  the  reasons  born  of 
a  day's  events,  of  the  discovery  of  the  lie  on  which  her 
spirit  had  been  resting.  She  did  not  say — her  heart  did 
not  say  only:  "I  hate  you  because  you  let  me  believe  in 
that  which  never  existed  except  in  my  imagination — my 
husband's  complete  love  of  me,  complete  faithfulness  to 
me.  I  hate  you  because  you  enclosed  me  in  the  prison 
of  a  lie.  I  hate  you  because  during  all  these  years  you 
have  been  a  witness  of  my  devotion  to  an  idol,  a  graven 
image  whose  wooden  grimace  I  mistook  for  the  smile  of 
the  god's  happy  messenger,  because  you  have  been  a 
witness  of  my  cult  for  the  memory  of  one  who  betrayed 
my  trust  in  him,  who  thought  nothing  of  my  gift  to  him, 
who  put  another  in  the  sanctuary  that  should  have  been 
sacred  to  me,  and  who  has  poisoned  the  sources  of  the 
holy  streams  that  flow  into  and  feed  the  soul  of  a  good 
woman." 

If  Hermione  had  silently  told  Artois  reasons  such  as 
622 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

these  for  hating  him  she  would  have  roused  him  to  battle 
with  her,  to  defend  himself  with  some  real  hope  of  hold- 
ing his  own,  even  of  eventual  conquest.  But  other  rea- 
sons, too,  did  they  not  come  from  her,  creeping  out  of  her 
brain  and  heart  and  soul  into  his,  reasons  against  which  he 
had  no  weapons,  against  which  he  could  make  no  defence  ? 

He  had  claimed  to  understand  the  psychology  of 
women.  He  had  believed  he  comprehended  women  well, 
Hermione  best  of  all  women.  But  these  reasons,  creep- 
ing out  of  her  into  him,  set  a  ring  of  illuminating  fire 
about  his  misconception.  They  told  him  that  though 
perhaps  he  had  known  one  Hermione  in  his  friend,  there 
were  other  Hermiones  in  her  whom  he  had  never  really 
known.  Once  in  the  garden  of  the  island  by  night  he 
had  seen,  or  fancied  he  had  seen,  a  strange  smile  upon 
her  face  that  betokened  a  secret  bitterness;  and  for  a 
moment  he  had  been  confused,  and  had  faltered  in  his 
speech,  and  had  felt  as  if  he  were  sitting  with  a  stranger 
who  was  hostile  to  him,  or,  if  not  actually  hostile,  was 
almost  cruelly  critical  of  him.  Now  that  stranger  silent- 
ly spoke  to  him,  silently  told  him  many  things. 

She  told  him — that  which  few  men  ever  know — some- 
thing of  what  women  specially  want,  specially  need  in 
life.  And  the  catalogue  of  these  needs  seemed  to  him 
to  be  also  the  catalogue  of  her  reasons  for  hating  him  at 
this  moment. 

"Women  need — I  needed,"  she  seemed  to  say,  "not 
only  a  large  and  ample  friendship,  nobly  condescending, 
a  friendship  like  an  announcement  to  citizens  affixed  to 
the  wall  of  a  market-place,  and  covering  boldly  all  the 
principal  circumstances  and  likely  happenings  of  or- 
dinary feminine  life,  but  a  friendship,  an  affection,  very 
individual,  very  full  of  subtlety,  not  such  as  would  suit, 
would  fit  comfortably  women,  but  such  as  would  suit, 
would  fit  comfortably,  would  fit  beautifully  one  individ- 
ual woman — me." 

623 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

Ah,  the  "woman  need"  was  flung  away,  like  a  stone 
thrown  into  the  sea!  It  was  the  "I  needed"  that  was 
held  fast,  that  was  shown  to  Artois  now.  And  the  "I" 
stood  to  Hermione  for  herself.  But  might  it  not  have 
stood  to  the  world  for  many  a  woman  ? 

"I  needed  some  one  to  whom  I  could  be  kind,  for 
whom  I  could  think,  plan,  hope,  weave  a  fabric  of  am- 
bitious dreams,  look  forward  along  the  path  that  leads 
to  glory.  I  needed  some  one  for  whom  I  could  be  un- 
selfish, to  whom  I  could  often  offer  those  small  burnt 
sacrifices  whose  smoke  women  love  to  see  ascending 
towards  God,  burnt  sacrifices  of  small  personal  desires, 
small  personal  plans  and  intentions.  I  needed  some 
one  to  need  my  encouragement,  my  admiration — fre- 
quently expressed — my  perpetual  sympathy  hovering 
about  him  like  a  warm  cloud  of  fragrant  incense,  my 
gentle  criticism,  leading  him  to  efforts  which  would  win 
from  the  world,  and  from  me,  more  admiration  of  and 
wonder  at  his  energy  and  genius.  I  needed  some  one 
to  stir  within  me  woman's  soft  passion  for  forgiveness, 
woman's  delight  in  petting  the  child  who  has  been 
naughty,  but  who  puts  the  naughtiness  aside  and  runs 
home  to  be  good  again.  I  needed  some  one  to  set  upon 
a  pedestal. 

"These  needs  you  fully  satisfied. 

"You  gave  me  generously  opportunities  for  kindness, 
for  thoughtfulness,  for  impersonal  ambition,  for  looking 
forward  on  your  behalf,  for  unselfishness,  for  the  sacri- 
fice of  my  little  personal  desires,  plans,  and  intentions,  for 
encouragement  of  you,  for  admiration  of  your  abilities, 
for  sympathy — even  for  gentle  criticism  leading  you  to 
efforts  which  won  from  me  eventually  a  greater  respect 
for  your  powers  and  for  secret  forgiveness  which  ended 
in  open  petting.  When  I  prepared  the  pedestal  you 
were  quite  ready  to  mount  it,  and  to  remain  upon  it 
without  any  demonstration  of  fatigue. 

624 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"And  so,  many  needs  of  mine  you  satisfied. 

"But  I  had  more  needs,  and  far  other  needs,  than 
these. 

"I  needed  not  only  to  make  many  gifts,  to  satisfy 
my  passion  for  generosity,  but  to  have  many  gifts,  and 
gifts  of  a  special  nature,  made  in  return  to  me.  I  needed 
to  feel  another  often,  if  not  perpetually  and  exclusively, 
intent  on  me.  I  needed  to  feel  tenderness  —  watchful, 
quick,  eager  tenderness,  not  tenderness  slow-footed  and 
in  blinkers — round  about  me. 

"I  needed  a  little  blindness  in  my  friend.  That  is 
true.  But  the  blindness  that  I  needed  was  not  blind- 
ness to  my  little  sacrifices,  but  blindness  to  my  little  faults. 

"To  a  woman  there  is  such  a  world  of  difference  be- 
tween the  two !  I  longed  for  my  friend  to  see  the  smoke 
ascending  from  my  small  burnt-offerings  of  self  made 
for  his  sake.  But  I  longed,  too,  for  him  not  always  to 
see  with  calm,  clear  eyes  my  petty  failings,  my  minute 
vanities,  my  inconsistencies,  my  incongruities,  my  fre- 
quent lack  of  reasoning  power  and  logical  sequence,  my 
gusts  of  occasional  injustice — ending  nearly  always  in 
a  rain  of  undue  benefits — my  surely  forgivable  follies  of 
sentiment,  my  irritabilities — how  often  due  to  physical 
causes  which  no  man  could  ever  understand! — my  blun- 
ders of  the  head — of  the  heart  I  made  but  few,  or  none — 
my  weak  depressions,  struggled  against  but  not  always 
conquered,  my  perhaps  childish  anxieties  and  apprehen- 
sions, my  forebodings,  not  invariably  well  founded,  my 
fleeting  absurdities  of  temper,  of  temperament,  of  man- 
ner, or  of  word. 

"But  as  definitely  as  my  friend  did  not  see  my  little 
sacrifices  he  saw  my  little  faults,  and  he  made  me  see 
that  he  saw  them.  Men  are  so  free  from  the  tender 
deceits  that  women  are  compact  of. 

"And  as  I  needed  blindness  in  some  directions,  in 
others  I  needed  clear  sight. 

625 


"I  needed  some  one  to  see  that  my  woman's  heart  was 
not  only  the  heart  of  a  happy  mother,  to  whom  God 
had  given  an  almost  perfect  child,  but  also  the  heart  of 
a  lover — not  of  a  grande  amoureuse,  perhaps,  but  of  a 
lover  who  had  been  deprived  of  the  love  that  is  the  com- 
plement of  woman's,  and  who  suffered  perpetually  in  wom- 
an's peculiar  and  terrible  way  because  of  that  deprivation. 

"I  needed  an  understanding  of  my  sacred  hunger,  a 
comprehension  of  my  desolation,  a  realization  that  my 
efforts  to  fill  my  time  with  work  were  as  the  efforts  of  a 
traveller  in  a  forest  to  escape  from  the  wolves  whose 
voices  he  hears  behind  him.  I  needed  the  recognition 
of  a  simple  truth — that  the  thing  one  is  passionately 
eager  to  give  is  nearly  always  the  thing  one  is  passion- 
ately eager  to  receive,  and  that  when  I  poured  forth 
sympathy  upon  others  I  was  longing  to  have  it  poured 
forth  upon  me.  I  gave  because  secretly  I  realized  the 
hunger  I  was  sharing.  And  often,  having  satisfied  your 
hunger,  I  was  left  to  starve,  no  longer  in  company,  but 
entirely  alone. 

"I  needed  great  things,  perhaps,  but  I  needed  them  ex- 
pressed in  little  ways;  and  I  needed  little  cares,  little  at- 
tentions, little  thoughtfulnesses,  little  preventions,  little, 
little,  absurd  kindnesses,  tendernesses,  recognitions,  for- 
givenesses. Perhaps,  indeed,  even  more  than  anything 
magnificent  or  great,  I  needed  the  so-called  little  things. 
It  is  not  enough  for  a  woman  to  know  that  a  man  would 
do  for  her  something  important,  something  even  superb, 
if  the  occasion  for  it  arose.  Such  an  occasion  probably 
never  would  arise — and  she  cannot  wait.  She  wants  to 
be  shown  at  every  moment  that  some  one  is  thinking 
kindly  of  her,  is  making  little,  kind  plots  and  plans  for 
her,  is  wishing  to  ward  off  from  her  the  chill  winds,  to 
keep  from  pricking  her  the  thorns  of  the  roses,  to  shut 
out  from  her  the  shadows  of  life  and  let  in  the  sunbeams 
to  her  pathway. 

626 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  needed  the  tender,  passing  touch  to  show  me  my 
secret  grief  was  understood,  and  my  inconsistency  was 
pardoned.  I  needed  the  generous  smile  to  prove  to 
me  that  my  greed  for  kindness,  even  when  perhaps  in- 
opportune, was  met  in  an  ungrudging  spirit.  I  needed 
now  and  then — I  needed  this  sometimes  terribly,  more, 
perhaps,  than  any  other  thing — a  sacrifice  of  self  in  my 
friend,  in  you,  a  sacrifice  of  some  very  small,  very  per- 
sonal desire  of  yours,  because  it  was  not  mine  or  be- 
cause it  was  the  opposite  to  mine.  Never,  never  did  my 
heart  and  my  nature  demand  of  yours  any  great  sacrifice 
of  self,  such  as  mine  could  have  made  —  such  as  mine 
once  did  make — for  you.  But  it  did  demand,  often — 
often  it  demanded  some  small  sacrifice:  the  giving  up  of 
some  trifle,  the  resignation  of  some  advantage,  perhaps, 
that  your  man's  intellect  gave  you  over  my  woman's 
intellect,  the  abandoning  of  some  argumentative  posi- 
tion, or  the  not  taking  of  it,  the  sweet  pretence — scarce- 
ly a  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost  of  truth! — that  I  was  a 
tiny  bit  more  persuasive,  or  more  clear-sighted,  or  more 
happy  in  some  contention,  or  more  just  in  some  decision, 
than  perhaps  I  really  was.  I  needed  to  be  shown  your 
affection  for  me,  as  I  was  ever  ready,  ever  anxious,  to 
show  mine  for  you,  in  all  the  little  ways  that  are  the 
language  of  the  heart  and  that  fill  a  woman's  life  with 
music. 

"All  this  I  needed.  My  nature  cried  out  for  it  as  in- 
stinctively as  the  nature  of  man  cries  out  for  God.  But 
all  this  I  needed  generally  in  vain.  You  were  not  al- 
ways a  niggard.  You  were  ready  sometimes  to  give  in 
your  way.  But  were  you  ever  ready  to  give  in  mine 
when  you  saw  —  and  sometimes  you  must  have  seen, 
sometimes  you  did  see — what  mine  was?  I  longed  al- 
ways to  give  you  all  you  wanted  in  the  way  you  wanted 
it.  But  you  gave  when  you  wished  and  as  you  chose 
to  give.  I  was  often  grateful.  I  was  too  often  grate- 

627 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

ful.  I  was  unduly  grateful.  Because  I  was  giving,  I 
was  always  giving  far  more  than  I  received. 

"But  all  that  time  I  had  something.  All  that  time  I 
had  a  memory  that  I  counted  sacred.  All  that  time, 
like  an  idiot  child,  I  was  clasping  in  my  hand  a  farthing, 
which  I  believed,  which  I  stated,  to  be  a  shining  piece 
of  gold. 

"You  knew  what  it  Was.  You  knew  it  was  a  farthing! 
You  knew — you  knew! 

"And  now  that  the  hour  has  come  when  I  know,  too, 
can't  you  understand  that  I  realize  not  only  that  that 
farthing  is  a  farthing,  but  that  all  farthings  are  farthings  ? 
Can't  you  understand  that  I  hate  those  who  have  given 
me  farthings  when  my  hands  were  stretched  out  for 
gold — my  hands  that  were  giving  gold? 

"Can't  you  understand?  Can't  you?  Then  I'll  make 
you  understand!  I'll  make  you!  I'll  make  you!" 

Again  the  blackness  gathered  itself  together,  took  a 
form,  the  form  of  a  wave,  towered  up  as  a  gigantic  wave 
towers,  rolled  upon  Artois  to  overwhelm  him.  He  stood 
firm  and  received  the  shock.  For  he  was  beginning  to 
understand.  He  was  no  longer  confronting  waves  of 
hatred  which  were  also  waves  of  mystery. 

He  had  thought  that  Hermione  hated  him,  hated 
every  one  just  then,  because  of  what  Ruffo  had  silently 
told  her  that  day  at  Mergellina.  But  as  he  stood  there 
in  the  dark  at  the  door  of  that  black  chamber,  hearing 
the  distant  murmur  of  the  sea  about  the  palace  walls, 
there  were  borne  in  upon  him,  as  if  in  words  she  told  him, 
all  the  reasons  for  present  hatred  of  him  which  preceded 
the  great  reason  of  that  day;  reasons  for  hatred  which 
sprang,  perhaps,  which  surely  must  spring,  from  other 
reasons  of  love. 

His  mind  was  exaggerating,  as  minds  do  when  the  heart 
is  intensely  moved,  yet  it  discerned  much  truth.  And 
it  was  very  strange,  but  his  now  acute  consciousness  of 

628 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

a  personal  hatred  coming  to  him  from  out  of  the  dark- 
ness of  this  almost  secret  chamber,  and  of  its  complex 
causes,  causes  which  nevertheless  would  surely  never 
have  produced  the  effect  he  felt  but  for  the  startling 
crisis  of  that  day,  this  acute  consciousness  of  a  personal 
and  fierce  hatred  bred  suddenly  in  Artois  a  new  sensa- 
tion of  something  that  was  not  hatred,  that  was  the 
reverse  of  hatred.  Vere  had  once  compared  him  to  a 
sleepy  lion.  The  lion  was  now  awake. 

"Hermione,"  he  said — and  now  his  voice  was  strong 
and  unfaltering — ' '  I  seem  to  have  been  listening  to  you 
all  this  time  that  I  have  been  standing  here.  Surely  I 
have  been  listening  to  you,  hearing  your  thoughts. 
Don't  you  know  it  ?  Haven't  you  felt  it  ?  When  I  left 
the  island,  when  I  followed  you,  I  thought  I  understood. 
I  thought  I  understood  what  you  were  feeling,  almost 
all  that  you  were  feeling.  I  know  now  how  little  I 
understood.  I  didn't  realize  how  much  there  was  to 
understand.  You've  been  telling  me.  Haven't  you, 
Hermione?  Haven't  you?" 

He  paused.     But  there  was  no  answer. 

"I  am  sure  you  have  been  telling  me.  We  must  get 
down  to  the  truth  at  last.  I  thought — till  now  I  have 
thought  that  I  was  more  able  to  read  the  truth  than 
most  men.  You  must  often  have  laughed — how  you 
must  have  laughed — secretly  at  my  pretensions.  Only 
once — one  night  in  the  garden  on  the  island — I  think  I 
saw  you  laughing.  And  even  then  I  didn't  understand. 
Mon  Dieu!" 

He  was  becoming  fiercely  concentrated  now  on  what 
he  was  saying.  He  was  losing  all  self -consciousness. 
He  was  even  losing  consciousness  of  the  strange  fact 
that  he  was  addressing  the  void.  It  was  as  if  he  saw 
Hermione,  so  strongly  did  he  feel  her. 

"Mon  Dieu!  It  is  as  if  I'd  been  blind  all  the  time  I 
have  known  you,  blind  to  the  truth  of  you  and  blinder 

629 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

still  to  my  own  truth.  Perhaps  I  am  blind  now.  I 
don't  know.  But,  Hermione,  I  can  see  something.  I 
do  know  something  of  you  and  of  myself.  I  do  know 
that  even  now  there  is  a  link  between  us.  You  want 
to  deny  it.  You  wouldn't  acknowledge  it.  But  it  is 
there.  We  are  not  quite  apart  from  each  other.  We 
can't  be  that.  For  there  is  something — there  has  al- 
ways been  something,  since  that  night  we  met  in  Paris, 
at  Madame  Enthoven's" —  he  paused  again,  so  vividly 
flashed  the  scene  of  that  dinner  in  Paris  upon  his  mem- 
ory— •' '  something  to  draw  us  together,  something  to  hold 
us  together,  something  strong.  Don't  deny  it  even  now. 
Don't  deny  it.  Can't  I  be  of  some  help,  even  now? 
Don't  say  I  am  utterly  useless  because  I  have  been  so 
useless  to  you,  so  damnably  useless  in  the  past.  I  see 
all  that,  my  wretched  uselessness  to  you  through  all  these 
years.  I  am  seeing  it  now  while  I  am  speaking.  All  the 
time  I'm  seeing  it.  What  you  have  deserved  and  what 
you  have  had!" 

He  stopped,  then  he  said  again: 

"What  you  have  deserved  and  what  you  have  had 
from  me!  And  from — it  was  so — it  was  the  same  long 
ago,  not  here.  But  till  to-day  you  didn't  know  that. 
I  was  wrong.  I  must  have  been  wrong,  hideously 
wrong,  but  I  didn't  want  you  ever  to  know  that.  It 
isn't  that  I  don't  love  truth.  You  know  I  do.  But  I 
thought  that  lie  was  right.  And  it  is  only  lately,  this 
summer,  that  I  have  had  any  doubts.  But  I  was 
wrong.  I  must  have  been  wrong.  It  was  intended 
that  you  should  know.  God,  perhaps,  intended  it." 

He  thought  he  heard  a  movement.  But  he  was  not 
quite  sure.  For  there  was  always  the  noise  of  the  sea 
in  the  deserted  chambers  of  the  palace. 

"It  seems  to  me  now  as  if  I  had  always  been  deceived, 
mistaken,  blind  with  you,  about  you.  I  thought  you 
need  never  know.  I  was  mad  enough  to  think  that. 

630 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

But  I  was  madder  still,  for  I  thought — I  must  have 
thought — that  you  could  not  bear  to  know,  that  you 
weren't  strong  enough  to  endure  the  knowledge.  But" 
—he  was  digging  deep  now,  searching  for  absolute  truth: 
in  this  moment  his  natural  passion  for  truth,  in  one  di- 
rection repressed  for  many  years  deliberately  and  con- 
sciously, in  other  directions,  perhaps,  almost  uncon- 
sciously frustrated,  took  entire  possession  of  his  being — 
"but  nothing  should  ever  be  allowed  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  truth.  I  believe  that.  I  know  it.  I  must,  I 
will  always  act  upon  the  knowledge  from  this  moment. 
Never  mind  if  it  is  bitter,  cruel.  Perhaps  it  is  some- 
times put  into  the  world  because  of  that.  I've  been 
a  horrible  faineant,  the  last  of  faineants.  I  protected 
you  from  the  truth.  With  Gaspare  I  managed  to  do  it. 
We  never  spoke  of  it — never.  But  I  think  each  of  us 
understood.  And  we  acted  together  for  you  in  that. 
And  I — it  has  often  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  a  fine 
thing  to  do,  and  that  my  motives  in  doing  it  were  fine. 
But  sometimes  I  have  wondered  whether  they  weren't 
selfish — whether,  instead  of  protecting  you,  I  wasn't 
only  protecting  myself.  For  it  was  all  my  fault.  It 
all  came  about  through  me,  through  my  weakness,  my 
cursed  weakness,  my  cursed  weakness  and  whining  for 
help."  He  grew  scarlet  in  the  dark,  realizing  how  his 
pride  in  his  strength,  his  quiet  assumption  with  Her- 
mione  that  he  was  the  stronger,  must  often  have  made 
her  marvel,  or  almost  weep.  "I  called  you  away.  I 
called  you  to  Africa.  And  if  I  hadn't  it  would  all  have 
been  different." 

"No,  it  would  all  have  been  the  same." 

Artois  started.  Out  of  the  darkness  a  voice,  a  low, 
cold,  inexorable  voice  had  spoken — had  spoken  abso- 
lute truth,  correcting  his  lie: 

"It  would  all  have  been  the  same!" 

The  woman's  unerring  instinct  had  penetrated  much 
631 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

further  than  the  man's.  He  had  been  feeling  the  shell; 
she  plucked  out  the  kernel.  He  had  been  speaking  of 
the  outward  facts,  of  the  actions  of  the  body;  she  spoke 
of  the  inward  facts,  of  the  actions  of  the  soul.  Her  hus- 
band's sin  against  her  was  not  his  unfaithfulness,  the  un- 
faithfulness at  the  Fair,  but  the  fact  that  all  the  time 
he  had  been  with  her,  all  the  time  she  had  been  giving 
her  whole  self  to  him,  all  the  time  that  she  had  been  sur- 
rounding him  with  her  love,  he  had  retained  in  his  soul 
the  power  to  will  to  commit  it.  That  he  had  been  given 
an  opportunity  to  sin  was  immaterial.  What  was  ma- 
terial was  that  he  had  been  capable  of  sinning. 

Artois  saw  his  lie.  And  he  stood  there  silent,  rebuked, 
waiting  for  the  voice  to  speak  again.  But  it  did  not 
speak.  And  he  felt  as  if  Hermione  were  silently  demand- 
ing that  he  should  sound  the  deeper  depths  of  truth, 
he  who  had  always  proclaimed  to  her  his  love  of  truth. 

"Perhaps — yes,  it  would  have  been  the  same,"  he 
said.  "But — but — "  His  intention  was  to  say,  "But 
we  should  not  have  known  it."  He  checked  himself. 
Even  as  they  formed  themselves  in  his  mind  the  words 
seemed  bending  like  some  wretched,  flabby  reed. 

"It  would  have  been  the  same.  But  that  makes  no 
difference  in  my  conduct.  I  was  weak  and  called  to 
you.  You  were  strong  and  came  to  me.  How  strong 
you  were!  How  strong  it  was  of  you  to  come!" 

As  if  for  the  first  time — and  indeed  it  was  for  the  first 
time — he  really  and  thoroughly  comprehended  her  self- 
sacrifice,  the  almost  bizarre  generosity  of  her  implacably 
unselfish  nature.  He  measured  the  force  of  her  love 
and  the  greatness  of  her  sacrifice,  by  the  depth  of  her 
disillusion;  and  he  began  to  wonder,  almost  as  a  child 
wonders  at  things,  how  he  had  been  able  during  all 
these  years  quite  simply,  with  indeed  the  almost  in- 
credible simplicity  of  man,  never  to  be  shared  by  any 
woman,  to  assume  and  to  feel,  when  with  Hermione, 

632 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

that  he  was  the  dominant  spirit  of  the  two,  that  she 
was,  very  rightly  and  properly,  and  very  happily  for 
her,  leaning  comfortably  upon  his  strength.  And  in  his 
wonder  he  knew  that  the  real  dominance  strikes  its  roots 
in  the  heart,  not  in  the  head. 

"You  were  strong,  then,  and  you  were  strong,  you 
were  wonderfully  strong,  when — afterwards.  On  Monte 
Amato — that  evening — you  were  strong." 

His  mind  went  to  that  mountain  summit.  The  eyes 
of  his  mind  saw  the  evening  calm  on  Etna,  and  then — 
something  else,  a  small,  fluttering  fragment  of  white 
paper  at  his  feet  among  the  stones.  And,  as  if  her  mind 
read  his,  she  spoke  again,  still  in  that  low,  cold,  and  in- 
exorable voice. 

"That  piece  of  paper  you  found — what  was  it?" 

"Hermione — Hermione — it  was  part  of  a  letter  of 
yours  written  in  Africa,  telling  him  that  we  were  coming 
to  Sicily,  the  day  we  were  coming." 

"It  was  that!" 

The  voice  had  suddenly  changed.  It  struggled  with 
a  sob.  It  sank  away  in  a  sob.  The  sin — that  she  could 
speak  of  with  a  sound  of  calm.  But  all  the  woman  in  her 
was  stricken  by  the  thought  of  her  happy  letter  treated  like 
that,  hated,  denied,  destroyed,  and  thrown  to  the  winds. 

"My  letter!   my  letter!" 

"Hermione!" 

His  heart  spoke  in  his  voice,  and  he  made  a  step  for- 
ward in  the  darkness. 

"Don't!" 

The  voice  had  changed  again,  had  become  sharp,  al- 
most cutting.  Like  the  lash  of  a  whip  it  fell  upon  him. 
And  he  stopped  at  once.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  she  had 
cried  out,  ' '  If  you  dare  to  give  me  your  pity  I  shall  kill 
you!" 

And  he  felt  as  if  just  then,  for  such  a  reason,  she 
would  be  capable  of  such  an  action. 

633 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  will  not — "  He  almost  faltered.  "I  am  not—- 
coming." 

Never  before  had  he  been  so  completely  dominated  by 
any  person,  or  by  any  fate,  or  by  anything  at  all. 

There  was  again  a  silence.     Then  he  said: 

"You  are  strong.  I  know  you  will  be  strong  now. 
You  can't  go  against  your  nature.  I  ought  to  have 
realized  that  as  I  have  not  realized  it.  I  ought  to  have 
trusted  to  your  strength  long  ago." 

If  he  had  known  how  weak  she  felt  while  she  listened 
to  him,  how  her  whole  being  was  secretly  entreating  to 
be  supported,  to  be  taken  hold  of  tenderly,  and  guarded 
and  cared  for  like  a  child!  But  he  was  a  man.  And  at 
one  moment  he  understood  her  and  at  another  he  did 
not. 

"Gaspare  and  I — we  wished  to  spare  you.  And  per- 
haps I  wished  to  spare  myself.  I  think  I  did.  I  am 
sure  I  did.  I  am  sure  that  was  partly  my  reason.  I  was 
secretly  ashamed  of  my  cowardice,  my  weakness  in 
Africa;  and  when  I  knew — no,  when  I  guessed,  for  it 
was  only  that — what  my  appeal  to  you  had  caused — all 
it  had  caused — " 

He  paused.  He  was  thinking  of  Maurice's  death, 
which  must  have  been  a  murder,  which  he  was  certain 
had  been  a  murder. 

"  I  hadn't— " 

But  the  compelling  voice  from  the  darkness  inter- 
rupted  him. 

"All?"  it  said. 

He  hesitated.     Had  she  read  his  mind  again  ? 

"All?" 

"The  misery,"  he  answered,  slowly.  "The  sorrow 
that  has  lain  upon  your  life  ever  since." 

"Did  you  mean  that?     Did  you  only  mean  that?" 

"No." 

"What  did  you  mean?" 

634 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"I  was  thinking  of  his  death,"  he  replied. 

He  spoke  very  quietly.  He  was  resolved  to  have  no 
more  subterfuges,  whatever  the  coward  or  the  tender 
friend,  or — the  something  else  that  was  more  than  the 
tender  friend  within  him  might  prompt  him  to  try  to 
hide. 

"I  was  thinking  of  his  death." 

"His  death!" 

Artois  felt  cold  with  apprehension,  but  he  was  deter- 
mined to  be  sincere. 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Don't  ask  me  any  more,  Hermione.  I  know  nothing 
more." 

"He  was  coming  from  the  island.  He  slipped  and  fell 
into  the  sea." 

"He  fell  into  the  sea." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them,  filled  by  the 
perpetual  striving  of  the  restless  waves  within  the 
chambers  of  the  palace.  Then  she  said: 

"Her  father  was  on  the  island  that  night?" 

"I  think  he  was." 

"Was  it  that?  Was  it  that?  Did  Maurice  make  that 
atonement?" 

Artois  shuddered.  Her  voice  was  so  strange,  or  sound- 
ed so  strange  in  the  dark.  Did  she  wish  to  think,  wish 
to  be  sure  that  her  husband  had  been  murdered?  He 
heard  the  faint  rustle  of  her  dress.  She  had  moved. 
Was  she  coming  nearer?  He  heard  her  breathing,  or 
thought  he  heard  it.  He  longed  to  be  certain.  He 
longed  to  still  the  perpetual  cry  of  the  baffled  sea. 

"Then  he  was  brave — at  the  last.  I  think  he  knew — 
I  am  sure  he  knew — when  he  went  down  to  the  sea.  I 
am  sure  he  knew — when  he  said  good-bye." 

Her  voice  was  nearer  o  him.  And  again  it  had 
changed,  utterly  changed.  And  in  the  different  sounds 
of  her  voice  Artois  seemed  to  see  the  different  women 
41  635 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

who  dwelt  within  her,  to  understand  and  to  know  them 
as  he  had  never  understood  and  known  them  before. 
This  woman  was  pleading,  as  women  will  plead  for  a 
man  they  have  once  loved,  so  long  as  they  have  voices, 
so  long  as  they  have  hearts. 

"Then  that  last  time  he  didn't — no,  he  didn't  go  to — 
her." 

The  voice  was  almost  a  whisper,  and  Artois  knew  that 
she  was  speaking  for  herself — that  she  was  telling  her- 
self that  her  husband's  last  action  had  been — not  to 
creep  to  the  woman,  but  to  stand  up  and  face  the  man. 

"Was  it  her  father?" 

The  voice  was  still  almost  a  whisper. 

"I  think  it  was." 

"Maurice  paid  then — he  paid!" 

"Yes.     I  am  sure  he  paid." 

"Gaspare  knew.  Gaspare  knew  —  that  night.  He 
was  afraid.  He  knew — but  he  didn't  tell  me.  He  has 
never  told  me." 

"He  loved  his  master." 

"Gaspare  loved  Maurice  more  than  he  loved  me." 

By  the  way  she  said  that  Artois  knew  that  Gaspare 
was  forgiven.  And  a  sort  of  passion  of  love  for  woman's 
love  welled  up  in  his  heart.  At  that  moment  he  almost 
worshipped  Hermione  for  being  unable,  even  in  that  mo- 
ment, not  to  love  Gaspare  because  Gaspare  had  loved 
the  dead  man  more  than  he  loved  her. 

"But  Gaspare  loves  you,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  believe  in  love.  I  don't  want  love  any 
more." 

Again  the  voice  was  transformed.  It  had  become 
hollow  and  weary,  without  resonance,  like  the  voice  of 
some  one  very  old.  And  Artois  thought  of  Virgil's 
Grotto,  of  all  they  had  said  there,  and  of  how  the  rock 
above  them  had  broken  into  deep  and  sinister  murmur- 
ings,  as  if  to  warn  them,  or  rebuke. 

636 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

And  now,  too,  there  were  murmurings  about  them, 
but  below  them  from  the  sea. 

"Hermione,  we  must  speak  only  the  truth  to-night." 

"I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  You  chose  to  follow  me. 
You  chose  to  hunt  me — to  hunt  me  when  you  knew  it 
was  necessary  to  me  to  be  alone.  It  was  brutal  to  do 
it.  It  was  brutal.  I  had  earned  the  right  at  least  to 
one  thing:  I  had  earned  the  right  to  be  alone.  But  you 
didn't  care.  You  wouldn't  respect  my  right.  You  hunt- 
ed me  as  you  might  have  hunted  an  animal.  I  tried 
to  escape.  I  didn't  go  to  the  village.  I  turned  in  here. 
I  hid  here.  But  you  saw  me  coming,  and  you  chased 
me,  and  you  caught  me.  I  can't  get  away.  You  have 
driven  me  in  here.  And  I  can't  get  away  from  you. 
You  won't  even  let  me  be  alone." 

"I  dare  not  let  you  be  alone  to-night." 

"Why  not?  What  are  you  afraid  of?  What  does  it 
matter  to  you  where  I  go  or  what  I  do  ?  Don't  say  it 
matters!  Don't  dare  to  say  that!" 

Her  voice  was  fierce  now. 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  anybody,  except  perhaps  a  lit- 
tle to  Vere  and  a  very  little  to  Gaspare.  It  never  has 
really  mattered  to  anybody.  I  thought  it  did  once  to 
some  one.  I  thought  I  knew  it  did.  But  I  was  wrong. 
It  didn't.  It  never  mattered." 

As  she  spoke  an  immense,  a  terrific  feeling  of  desola- 
tion poured  over  her,  as  if  from  above,  coming  down 
upon  her  in  the  dark.  It  was  like  a  flood  that  stiffened 
into  ice  upon  her,  making  her  body  and  her  soul  numb 
for  a  moment. 

"I've  never  mattered  to  any  one." 

She  muttered  the  words  to  herself.  As  she  did  so 
Artois  seemed  again  to  be  looking  into  the  magic  mirror 
of  the  fattura  della  morte,  to  see  the  pale  man,  across 
whose  face  the  shadow  of  a  palm-leaf  shifted,  turning 
on  his  bed  towards  a  woman  who  stood  by  an  open  door. 

637 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"You  have  always  mattered  to  me,"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  there  was  in  his  voice  that  peculiar  ring 
of  utter  sincerity  which  can  no  more  be  simulated,  or 
mistaken,  than  the  ringing  music  of  sterling  gold.  But 
perhaps  she  was  not  in  a  condition  to  hear  rightly,  or 
perhaps  something  within  her  chose  to  deny,  had  a  lust 
for  denial  because  denial  hurt  her. 

"To  you  least  of  all,"  she  said.  "Only  yourself  has 
ever  really  mattered  to  you." 

In  a  sentence  she  summed  up  the  long  catalogue  that 
had  been  given  to  him  by  her  silence. 

His  whole  body  felt  as  if  it  reddened.  His  skin 
tingled  with  a  sort  of  physical  anger.  His  mature  pride 
that  had  grown  always,  as  a  strong  man's  natural  pride 
does  grow  with  the  passing  of  the  years,  seemed  to  him 
instinctively  to  rush  forward  to  return  the  blow  that 
had  been  dealt  it. 

"That  is  not  quite  true,"  he  said. 

"It  is  true.  I  have  always  had  copper  and  I  have 
always  wanted  gold,"  she  answered. 

He  controlled  himself,  to  prove  to  himself  that  she 
lied,  that  he  was  not  the  eternal  egoist  she  dubbed  him. 
Sometimes  he  had  been  genuinely  unselfish,  sometimes 
— not  often,  perhaps,  but  sometimes — he  had  really 
sunk  himself  in  her.  She  was  not  being  quite  just. 
But  how  could  she  be  quite  just  to-night?  And  what 
did  exact  justice  matter  to-night?  An  almost  reckless 
feeling  overtook  him,  a  desire  to  conquer  at  all  costs 
in  this  struggle;  to  win  her  back,  whether  against  her 
will  or  not,  to  her  old  self;  to  eliminate  the  shocking 
impression  made  upon  her  soul  by  the  discovery  of  that 
day,  to  wipe  it  out  utterly,  to  replace  it  with  another; 
to  revive  within  her  that  beautiful  enthusiasm  which 
had  been  as  a  light  always  shining  for  her  and  from  her 
upon  people  and  events  and  life;  to  make  her  under- 
stand, to  prove  to  her  that,  after  all  allowance  has  been 

638 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

made  for  uncertainties  and  contradictions  of  fate,  for 
the  ironies,  the  paradoxes,  the  cruelties,  the  tragedies, 
and  the  despairs  of  existence,  the  great,  broad  fact 
emerges,  that  what  the  human  being  gives,  in  the  long 
run  the  human  being  generally  gets,  and  that  she  who 
persistently  gives  gold  will  surely  at  last  receive  it. 

The  thought  of  a  lost  Hermione  struck  to  his  heart  a 
greater  fear  than  had  already  that  night  the  thought  of 
a  dead  Hermione.  And  if  she  was  changed  she  was  lost. 

The  real,  the  beautiful  Hermione — he  must  seize  her, 
grip  her,  hold  her  fast  before  it  was  too  late. 

"Hermione,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  saved  me  from 
death;  I  am  sure  you  did.  Did  you  save  me  only  to 
hate  me?" 

She  made  no  reply. 

' '  Do  you  remember  that  evening  when  you  came  into 
my  room  at  Kairouan  all  covered  with  dust  from  your 
journey  across  the  plains?  I  do.  I  remember  it  as  if 
it  had  happened  an  hour  ago  instead  of  nearly  seventeen 
years.  I  remember  the  strange  feeling  I  had  when  I 
turned  my  head  and  saw  you,  a  feeling  that  you  and 
Africa  would  fight  for  me  and  that  you  would  conquer. 
It  had  seemed  to  me  that  Africa  meant  to  have  me  and 
would  have  me.  Unless  you  came  I  felt  certain  of  that. 
And  I  had  thought  about  it  all  as  I  lay  there  in  the 
stifling  heat,  till  I  almost  felt  the  feverish  earth  enclosing 
me.  I  had  loved  Africa,  but  Africa  seemed  to  me  ter- 
rible then.  I  thought  of  only  Arabs,  always  Arabs, 
walking  above  me  on  the  surface  of  the  ground  when  I 
was  buried.  And  the  thought  made  me  shudder  with 
horror.  As  if  it  could  have  mattered!  I  was  absurd! 
But  one  is  often  absurd  when  one  is  very  ill.  The  child 
in  one  comes  out  then,  I  suppose.  And  I  had  wondered 
— how  I  had  wondered! — whether  there  was  any  chance 
of  your  coming.  I  hadn't  actually  asked  you  to  come. 
I  hadn't  dared  to  do  that.  But  it  was  the  same  thing 

639 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

almost.  I  had  let  you  know — I  had  let  you  know. 
And  I  saw  you  come  into  my  room  all  covered  with  dust. 
You  had  come  so  quickly — at  once.  Perhaps — perhaps 
sometimes  you  have  thought  I  had  forgotten  that  even- 
ing. I  may  be  an  egoist.  I  expect  most  men  are 
egoists.  And  perhaps  I  am  the  egoist  you  say  I  am. 
Often  one  doesn't  know  what  one  is.  But  I  have  never 
forgotten  that  day,  and  that  you  were  covered  with  dust. 
It  was  that — the  dust — which  seemed  to  make  me  re- 
alize that  you  had  not  lost  a  moment  in  coming,  that 
you  hadn't  hesitated  a  moment  as  to  whether  you  would 
come  or  not.  You  looked  as  if — almost  as  if  you  had 
run  all  the  way  to  be  in  time  to  save  my  life  —  my 
wretched  life.  And  you  saved  it.  Did  you  save  me  to 
hate  me?" 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak.  But  still  she  was  silent. 
He  heard  no  sound  of  her  at  all,  and  for  a  moment  he 
almost  wondered  whether  she  had  discovered  that  the 
chamber  had  some  second  outlet,  whether  she  had  not 
escaped  while  he  had  been  speaking.  But  he  looked 
round  and  he  saw  only  dense  darkness.  She  must  be 
there  still,  close  to  him,  hearing  everything  he  said, 
whether  against  her  will  or  with  it.  He  was  being  per- 
fectly sincere,  and  he  was  feeling  very  deeply,  with  in- 
tensity. But  out  of  his  natural  reserve  now  rose  a  fear 
— the  fear  that  perhaps  his  voice,  his  speech,  did  not 
convey  his  sincerity  to  her.  If  she  should  mistake  him! 
If  she  should  fancy  he  was  trying  to  play  upon  her 
emotions  in  order  to  win  her  away  from  some  desperate 
resolve.  He  longed  to  make  her  see  what  he  was  feel- 
ing, feel  what  he  was  feeling,  be  him  and  herself  for  one 
moment.  And  now  the  darkness  began  to  distract  him. 
He  wanted  light.  He  wanted  to  see  Hermione,  to  see 
which  of  the  women  in  her  faced  him,  which  was  listen- 
ing to  him. 

"Hermione,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  —  I  want  —  it's 
640 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

hateful  speaking  like  this,  always  in  the  darkness.  Don't 
make  me  stay  here.  Don't  make  me  feel  all  the  time 
that  I  am  holding  you  a  prisoner.  No,  I  can't — I  won't 
bear  that  any  more." 

He  moved  suddenly  from  the  doorway  back  into  the 
room  behind  him,  in  which  there  was  a  very  little,  very 
faint  light.  There  he  waited. 

Almost  immediately  the  tall  shadow  which  had  dis- 
appeared into  the  darkness  emerged  from  it,  passed 
before  him,  and  went  into  the  central  chamber  of  the 
palace.  He  followed  it,  and  found  Hermione  standing 
by  the  great  doorway  that  overlooked  the  sea.  Her- 
mione she  was,  no  longer  a  shadow,  but  the  definite 
darkness  of  a  human  form  relieved  against  the  clear 
but  now  moonless  night.  She  was  waiting.  Surely  she 
was  waiting  for  him.  She  might  have  escaped,  but  she 
stayed.  She  was  willing,  then,  to  hear  what  he  had  to 
say,  all  he  had  to  say. 

He  stood  still  at  a  little  distance  from  her.  But  in 
this  hall  the  sound  of  the  sea  which  came  from  the 
chamber  on  the  left  was  much  more  distinct  and  dis- 
turbing than  in  the  chamber  where  she  had  hidden. 
And  he  came  nearer  to  her,  till  he  was  very  near,  almost 
close  to  her. 

"If  you  hated  me  for — once,  when  we  were  standing 
on  the  terrace,  you  said,  'Take  care — or  I  shall  hate  you 
for  keeping  me  in  the  dark.'  If  you  hated  me  because 
of  what  I  have  done,  with  Gaspare,  Hermione,  I  could 
bear  it.  I  could  bear  it,  because  I  think  it  would  pass 
away.  We  did  keep  you  in  the  dark.  Now  you  know 
it.  But  you  know  our  reason,  and  that  it  was  a  reason 
of  very  deep  affection.  And  I  think  you  would  forgive 
us,  I  know  you  would  forgive  us  in  the  end.  But  I 
understand  it  isn't  only  that — 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  Vere,  of  that  perhaps  dawn- 
ing folly,  so  utterly  dead  now,  so  utterly  dead  that  he 

641 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

could  no  longer  tell  whether  it  had  ever  even  sluggishly 
stirred  with  life.  He  thought  of  Vere,  and  of  the  poems, 
and  of  the  secret  of  Peppina's  revelation.  And  he  won- 
dered whether  the  record  he  seemed  to  read  in  the 
silence  had  been  a  true  record,  or  whether  his  imagina- 
tion and  his  intellect  of  a  psychologist,  alert  even  in 
this  hour  of  intense  emotion,  had  been  deceiving  him. 
Hermione  had  seemed  to  be  speaking  to  him.  But  had 
he  really  been  only  impersonating  her?  Had  it  been 
really  himself  that  had  spoken  to  himself?  As  this 
question  arose  in  his  mind  he  longed  to  make  Hermione 
speak.  Then  he  could  be  sure  of  all.  He  must  clear 
away  all  misconception.  Yet,  even  now,  how  could  he 
speak  of  that  episode  with  Vere  ? 

"You  say  you  have  always  wanted  gold,  and  that 
you  have  never  been  given  gold — " 

"Yes." 

He  saw  the  dark  figure  near  him  lift  its  head.  And 
he  felt  that  Hermione  had  come  out  of  the  darkness 
with  the  intention  of  speaking  the  truth  of  what  she  felt. 
If  she  could  not  have  spoken  she  would  have  stayed  in 
the  inner  chamber,  or  she  would  have  escaped  altogether 
from  the  palace  when  he  moved  from  the  doorway.  He 
was  sure  that  only  if  she  spoke  would  she  change.  In 
her  silence  there  was  damnation  for  them  both.  But  she 
meant  to  speak. 

"I  have  been  a  fool.  I  see  that  now.  But  I  think  I 
have  been  suspecting  it  for  some  time — nearly  all  this 
summer." 

He  could  hear  by  the  sound  of  her  voice  that  while 
she  was  speaking  she  was  thinking  deeply.  Like  him, 
she  was  in  search  of  absolute  truth. 

"It  is  only  this  summer  that  I  have  begun  to  see  why 
people — you — have  often  smiled  at  my  enthusiasms. 
No  wonder  you  smiled!  No  wonder  you  laughed  at  me 
secretly!" 

642 


A    SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Her  voice  was  hard  and  bitter. 

"I  never  laughed  at  you,  never — either  secretly  or 
openly!"  he  said,  with  a  heat  almost  of  anger. 

"Oh  yes,  you  did,  as  a  person  who  can  see  clearly 
might  laugh  at  a  short-sighted  person  tumbling  over  all 
the  little  obstacles  on  a  road.  I  was  always  tumbling 
over  things — always — and  you  must  always  have  been 
laughing.  I  have  been  a  fool.  Instead  of  growing  up, 
my  heart  has  remained  a  child — till  now.  That's  what 
it  is.  Children  who  have  been  kindly  treated  think  the 
world  is  all  kindness.  Because  my  friends  were  good 
to  me,  the  world  was  good  to  me,  I  got  into  the  habit  of 
believing  that  I  was  lovable,  and  of  loving  in  return. 
And  I  trusted  people.  I  always  thought  they  were  giv- 
ing me  what  I  was  giving  them.  That  has  been  my 
great  folly,  the  folly  I'm  punished  for.  I  have  been  a 
credulous  fool.  I  have  thought  that  because  I  gave  a 
thing  with  all  my  heart  it  was — it  must  be — given  back 
to  me.  And  yet  I  was  surprised — I  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve it — when — when — " 

He  knew  she  was  thinking  of  her  beautiful  wonder 
when  Maurice  had  said  he  loved  her. 

"I  could  scarcely  believe  it!  But,  because  I  was  a 
fool,  I  got  to  believe  it,  and  I  have  believed  it  till  to-day 
— you  have  stood  by,  and  watched  me  believing  it,  and 
laughed  at  me  for  believing  it  till  to-day." 

"Hermione!" 

"Yes,  you  mayn't  have  meant  to  laugh,  but  you  must 
have  laughed.  Your  mind,  your  intellect  must  have 
laughed.  Don't  say  they  haven't.  I  wouldn't  believe 
you.  And  I  know  your  mind — at  any  rate,  I  know  that. 
Not  your  heart!  I  shall  never  pretend — I  shall  never 
think  again  for  a  moment  that  I  know  anything — 
anything  at  all — about  a  man's  heart.  But  I  do  know 
something  about  your  mind.  And  I  know  the  irony  in 
it.  What  a  subject  I  have  presented  to  you  all  these 

643 


years  for  the  exercise  of  your  ironic  faculty!  You  ought 
to  thank  me !  You  ought  to  go  on  your  knees  and  thank 
me  and  bless  me  for  that!" 

"Hermione!" 

"Just  now  you  talked  of  my  coming  into  your  room 
in  Kairouan  all  covered  with  dust.  You  asked  me  if  I 
remembered  it.  Yes,  I  do.  And  I  remember  something 
you  don't — probably  you  don't — remember.  There  was 
no  looking-glass  in  your  room." 

She  stopped. 

"No  looking-glass!"  he  repeated,  wondering. 

"No,  there  was  no  looking-glass.  And  I  .remember 
when  I  came  in  I  saw  there  wasn't,  and  I  was  glad. 
Because  I  couldn't  look  at  myself  and  see  how  dreadful 
and  dishevelled  and  hideous  I  was  —  how  dirty  even  I 
was.  My  impulse  was  to  go  to  a  glass.  And  then  I  was 
glad  I  couldn't.  And  I  looked  at  your  face.  And  I 
thought  'he  doesn't  care.  He  loves  me,  all  dusty  and 
hideous  and  horrid,  as  I  am.'  And  then  I  didn't  care 
either.  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  look  an  object,  and  I  don't 
mind  a  bit,  because  I  see  in  his  face  that  he  loves  me 
for  myself,  because  he  sees  my  heart,  and — ' " 

And  suddenly  in  her  voice  there  was  a  sharp,  hissing 
catch,  and  she  stopped  short.  For  a  full  minute  she 
was. silent.  And  Artois  did  not  speak.  Nor  did  he 
move. 

"I  felt  then,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  'the  outside 
doesn't  matter  to  real  people.'  I  felt  that.  I  felt,  'I'm 
real,  and  he  is  real,  and — and  Maurice  is  real.  And 
though  it  is  splendid  to  be  beautiful,  and  beauty  means 
so  much,  yet  it  doesn't  mean  so  much  as  I  used  to  think. 
Real  people  get  beyond  it.  And  when  once  they  have 
got  beyond  it  then  life  begins.'  I  remember  thinking 
that,  feeling  that,  and — just  for  a  minute  loving  my  own 
ugliness.  And  then,  suddenly,  I  wished  there  was  a  look- 
ing-glass in  the  room  that  I  might  stand  before  it  and 

644 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

see  what  an  object  I  was,  and  then  look  into  your  face 
and  see  that  it  didn't  matter.  And  I  even  triumphed 
in  my  ugliness.  'I  have  a  husband  who  doesn't  mind,' 
I  thought.  'And  I  have  a  friend  who  doesn't  mind. 
They  love  me,  both  of  them,  whatever  I  look  like.  It's 
me — the  woman  inside — they  love,  because  they  know 
I  care,  and  how  I  care  for  them.'  And  that  thought 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  could  do  anything  for  Maurice  and 
anything  for  you;  heroic  things,  or  small,  dreadful, 
necessary  things;  as  if  I  could  be  the  servant  of,  or  sac- 
rifice my  life  easily  for,  those  who  loved  me  so  splendidly, 
who  knew  how  to  love  so  splendidly.  And  I  was  happy 
then  even  in  sacrificing  my  happiness  with  Maurice.  And 
I  thanked  God  then  for  not  having  given  me  beauty. 

"And  I  was  a  fool.  But  I  didn't  find  it  out.  And 
so  I  revelled  in  self-sacrifice.  You  don't  know,  you 
could  never  understand,  how  I  enjoyed  doing  the  most 
menial  things  for  you  in  your  illness.  Often  you  thank- 
ed me,  and  often  you  seemed  ashamed  that  I  should  do 
such  things.  And  the  doctor — that  little  Frenchman — 
apologized  to  me.  And  you  both  thought  that  doing 
so  much  in  the  frightful  heat  would  make  me  ill.  And 
I  blessed  the  heat  and  the  flies  and  everything  that 
made  what  I  did  for  you  more  difficult  to  do.  Because 
the  doing  of  what  was  more  difficult,  more  trying,  more 
fatiguing  needed  more  love.  And  my  gratitude  to  you 
for  your  loving  friendship,  and  ibr  needing  me  more 
than  any  one  else,  wanted  to  be  tried  to  the  uttermost. 
And  I  thought,  too,  'When  I  go  back  to  Maurice  I  shall 
be  worth  a  little  more,  I  shall  be  a  little  bit  finer,  and 
he'll  feel  it.  He'll  understand  exactly  what  it  was  to 
me  to  leave  him  so  soon,  to  leave — to  leave  what  I 
thought  of  then  as  my  Garden  of  Paradise.  And  he'll 
love  me  more  because  I  had  the  courage  to  leave  it  to 
try  and  save  my  friend.  He'll  realize — he'll  realize — ' 
But  men  don't.  They  don't  want  to.  Or  they  can't 

645 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

1  'm  sure — I'm  positive  now  that  men  think  less  of  women 
who  are  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves  than  of  women  who 
wish  to  make  slaves  of  them.  I  see  that  now.  It's  the 
selfish  women  they  admire,  the  women  who  take  their 
own  way  and  insist  on  having  all  they  want,  not  the 
women  who  love  to  serve  them — not  slavishly,  but  out 
of  love.  A  selfish  woman  they  can  understand;  but 
a  woman  who  gives  up  something  very  precious  to  her 
they  don't  understand.  Maurice  never  understood  my 
action  in  going  to  Africa.  And  you — I  don't  believe 
you  ever  understood  it.  You  must  have  wondered  at 
my  coming  as  much  as  he  did  at  my  going.  You  were 
glad  I  came  at  the  moment.  Oh  yes,  you  were  glad. 
I  know  that.  But  afterwards  you  must  have  wondered ; 
you  did  wonder.  You  thought  it  Quixotic,  odd.  You 
said  to  yourself,  '  It  was  just  like  Hermione.  How  could 
she  do  it?  How  could  she  come  to  me  if  she  really 
loved  her  husband  ?'  And  very  likely  my  coming  made 
you  doubt  my  really  loving  Maurice.  I  am  almost  sure 
it  did.  I  don't  believe  all  these  years  you  have  ever 
understood  what  I  felt  about  him,  what  his  death 
meant  to  me,  what  life  meant  to  me  afterwards.  I  told 
— I  tried  to  tell  you  in  the  cave — that  day.  But  I  don't 
think  you  really  understood  at  all.  And  he — he  didn't 
understand  my  love  for  him.  But  I  suppose  he  didn't 
even  want  to.  When  I  went  away  he  simply  forgot  all 
about  me.  That  was  it.  I  wasn't  there,  and  he  forgot. 
I  wasn't  there,  and  another  woman  was  there — and  that 
was  enough  for  him.  And  I  dare  say — now — it  is 
enough  for  most  men,  perhaps  for  every  man.  And 
then  I'd  made  another  mistake.  I  was  always  making 
mistakes  when  my  heart  led  me.  And  I'd  made  a  mis- 
take in  thinking  that  real  people  get  beyond  looks,  the 
outside — and  that  then  life  begins.  They  don't — at 
least  real  men  don't.  A  woman  may  spend  her  heart's 
blood  for  a  man  through  years,  and  for  youthful  charm 

646 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

and  a  face  that  is  pretty,  for  the  mere  look  in  a  pair  of 
eyes  or  the  curve  of  a  mouth,  he'll  almost  forget  that 
she's  alive,  even  when  she's  there  before  him.  He'll 
take  the  other  woman's  part  against  her  instinctively, 
whichever  is  in  the  right.  If  both  women  do  exactly 
the  same  thing  a  man  will  find  that  the  pretty  woman 
has  performed  a  miracle  and  the  ugly  woman  made  some 
preposterous  mistake.  That  is  how  men  are.  That  is 
how  you  are,  I  suppose,  and  that  was  Maurice,  too.  He 
forgot  me  for  a  peasant.  But — she  must  have  been  pretty 
once.  And  I  was  always  ugly!" 

"Delarey  loved  you,"  Artois  said,  suddenly,  inter- 
rupting her  in  a  strong,  deep  voice,  a  voice  that  rang 
with  true  conviction. 

"He  never  loved  me.  Perhaps  he  thought  he  did. 
He  must  have  thought  so.  And  that  first  day — when 
we  were  coming  up  the  mountain-side — " 

She  stopped.  She  was  seized;  she  was  held  fast  in 
the  grip  of  a  memory  so  intense,  so  poignant,  that  she 
made,  she  could  make,  no  effort  to  release  herself.  She 
heard  the  drowsy  wail  of  the  Ceramella  dropping  down 
the  mountain  -  side  in  the  radiant  heat  of  noon.  She 
felt  Maurice's  warm  hand.  She  remembered  her  words 
about  the  woman's  need  to  love — "I  wanted,  I  needed 
to  love  —  do  men  ever  feel  that?  Women  do  often, 
ncaryl  always,  I  think."  The  Pastorale — it  sounded  in 
her  ears.  Or  was  it  the  sea  that  sounded,  the  sea  in  the 
abandoned  chambers  of  the  Palace  of  the  Spirits  ?  She 
listened.  No,  it  was  the  Pastorale,  that  antique,  sim- 
ple, holy  tune,  that  for  her  must  always  be  connected 
with  the  thought  of  love,  man's  love  for  woman,  and 
the  Bambino's  love  for  all  the  creatures  of  God.  It 
flooded  her  heart,  and  beneath  it  sank  down,  like  a 
drowning  thing,  for  a  moment  the  frightful  bitterness 
that  was  alive  in  her  heart  to-night. 

"Delarey  loved  you,"  Artois  repeated.  "He  loved 
647 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

you  on  the  first  day  in  Sicily,  and  he  loved  you  on  the 
last." 

"And — and  the  days  between?" 

Her  voice  spoke  falteringly.  In  her  voice  there  was 
a  sound  of  pleading  that  struck  into  the  very  depths 
of  his  heart.  The  real  Hermione  was  in  that  sound, 
the  loving'  woman  who  needed  love,  who  deserved  a 
love  as  deep  as  that  which  she  had  given,  as  that  which 
she  surely  still  had  to  give. 

"He  loved  you  always,  but  he  loved  you  in  his  way." 

"In  his  way!"  she  repeated,  with  a  sort  of  infinite, 
hopeless  sadness. 

"Yes,  Hermione,  in  his  way.  Oh,  we  all  have  our 
ways,  all  our  different  ways  of  loving.  But  I  don't 
believe  a  human  being  ever  existed  who  had  no  way  at 
all.  Delarey's  way  was  different  from  your  way,  so 
different  that,  now  you  know  the  truth  of  him,  perhaps 
you  can't  believe  he  ever  loved  you.  But  he  did.  He 
was  young,  and  he  was  hot-blooded — he  was  really  of 
the  South.  And  the  sun  got  hold  of  him.  And  he  be- 
trayed you.  But  he  repented.  That  last  day  he  was 
stricken,  not  by  physical  fear,  but  by  a  tremendous 
shame  at  what  he  had  done  to  you,  and  perhaps,  also, 
by  fear  lest  you  should  ever  know  it.  I  sat  with  him 
by  the  wall,  and  I  felt  without  at  all  fully  understand- 
ing it  the  drama  in  his  soul.  But  now  I  understand  it. 
I'm  sure  I  understand  it.  And  I  think  the  depth  of  a 
shame  is  very  often  the  exact  measure  of  the  depth  of 
a  love.  Perhaps,  indeed,  there  is  no  more  exact  meas- 
ure." 

Again  he  thought  of  the  episode  with  Vere,  and  of 
his  determination  always  from  henceforth  to  be  abso- 
lutely sincere  with  himself  and  with  those  whom  he 
really  loved. 

"I  am  sure  there  is  no  more  exact  measure.  Her- 
mione, it  is  very  difficult,  I  think,  to  realize  what  any 

648 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

human  being  is,  to  judge  any  one  quite  accurately. 
Some  judge  a  nature  by  the  distance  it  can  sink,  others 
by  the  distance  it  can  rise.  Which  do  you  do?  Do 
you  judge  Delarey  by  his  act  of  faithlessness?  And, 
if  you  do,  how  would  you  judge  me  ?" 

"You!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  wonder  in  her  voice. 

"Yes.  You  say  I  am  an  egoist.  And  this  that  I  am 
saying  will  seem  to  you  egoism.  It  is  egoism,  I  suppose. 
But  I  want  to  know— I  must  know.  How  would  you 
judge  me  ?  How  do  you  judge  me  ?" 

She  was  silent. 

"How  are  you  judging  me  at  this  moment?  Aren't 
you  judging  me  by  the  distance  I  could  fall,  the  dis- 
tance, perhaps,  you  think  I  have  fallen  ?" 

He  spoke  slowly.  He  was  delaying.  For  all  the  time 
he  spoke  he  was  secretly  battling  with  his  pride — and 
his  pride  was  a  strong  fighter.  But  to-night  his  passion 
for  sincerity,  his  instinct  that  for  Hermione — and  for 
him,  too — salvation  lay  in  their  perfect,  even  in  their 
cruel  sincerity  to  themselves  and  to  each  other,  was  a 
strong  fighter  also.  In  it  his  pride  met  an  antagonist 
that  was  worthy  of  it.  And  he  went  on: 

"Are  you  judging  me  by  this  summer?" 

He  paused. 

"Go  on,"  she  said. 

He  could  not  tell  by  her  voice  what  she  was  feeling, 
thinking.  Expression  seemed  to  be  withdrawn  from  it, 
perhaps  deliberately. 

"This  summer  something  has  come  between  us,  a 
cloud  has  come  between  us.  I  scarcely  know  when  I 
first  noticed  it,  when  it  came.  But  I  have  felt  it,  and 
you  have  felt  it." 

"Yes." 

"It  might,  perhaps,  have  arisen  from  the  fact  of  my 
suspicion  who  Ruffo  was,  a  suspicion  that  lately  became 

649 


A   SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

a  certainty.  My  suspicion,  and  latterly  my  knowledge, 
no  doubt  changed  my  manner — made  me  anxious,  per- 
haps, uneasy,  made  me  watchful,  made  me  often  seem 
very  strange  to  you.  That  alone  might  have  caused  a 
difference  in  our  relations.  But  I  think  there  was  some- 
thing else." 

"Yes,  there  was  something  else." 

"And  I  think,  I  feel  sure  now,  that  it  was  something 
to  do  with  Vere.  I  was,  I  became  deeply  interested  in 
Vere — interested  in  a  new  way.  She  was  growing  up. 
She  was  passing  from  childhood  into  girlhood.  She  was 
developing  swiftly.  That  development  fascinated  me. 
Of  course  I  had  always  been  very  fond  of  Vere.  But 
this  summer  she  meant  more  to  me  than  she  had  meant. 
One  day — it  was  the  day  I  came  back  to  the  island  after 
my  visit  to  Paris — " 

"Yes?" 

He  looked  at  her,  trying  to  read  what  she  was  feeling 
in  her  face,  but  it  was  too  dark  for  him  to  discern  it. 

"Vere  made  a  confession  to  me.  She  told  me  she 
was  working  secretly,  that  she  was  writing  poems.  I 
asked  her  to  show  them  to  me.  She  did  so.  I  found 
some  talent  in  them,  enough  for  me  to  feel  justified  in 
telling  her  to  continue.  Once,  Hermione,  you  consulted 
me.  Then  my  advice  was  different." 

"I  know." 

"The  remembrance  of  this,  and  Vere's  knowledge 
that  you  had  suffered  in  not  succeeding  with  work, 
prompted  us  to  keep  the  matter  of  her  attempts  to 
write  a  secret  for  the  time.  It  seems  a  trifle — all  this, 
but  looking  back  now  I  feel  that  we  were  quite  wrong 
in  not  telling  you." 

"I  found  it  out." 

"You  knew?" 

"I  went  to  Vere's  room.  The  poems  were  on  the 
table  with  your  corrections.  I  read  them." 

650 


"We  ought  to  have  told  you." 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  read  them,  but  I  did." 

"A  mother  has  the  right — " 

"Not  a  mother  who  has  resigned  her  right  to  ques- 
tion her  child.  I  had  said  to  Vere,  'Keep  your  secrets.' 
So  I  had  no  right,  and  I  did  wrong  in  reading  them." 

He  felt  that  she  was  instinctively  trying  to  match  his 
sincerity  with  hers,  and  that  fact  helped  him  to  continue. 

"The  knowledge  of  this  budding  talent  of  Vere's 
made  me  take  a  new  interest  in  her,  made  me  wish  very 
much — at  least  I  thought,  I  believed  it  was  that,  Her- 
mione — that  no  disturbing  influence  should  come  into 
her  life.  Isidore  Panacci  came — through  me.  Peppina 
came — through  you.  Hermione,  on  the  night  when 
Vere  and  I  went  out  alone  together  in  the  boat  Vere 
learned  the  truth  about  Peppina  and  the  life  behind 
the  shutter." 

"I  knew  that,  too." 

"You  knew  it?" 

"Yes.  I  suspected  something.  You  led  me  to  sus- 
pect it." 

"I  remember — " 

"I  questioned  Peppina.     I  made  her  tell  me." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  an  effort, 
he  said: 

"You  knew  we  had  kept  those  two  things  from  you, 
Vere  and  I?" 

"Vere  and  you — yes." 

Now  he  understood  almost  all,  or  quite  all,  that  had 
been  strange  to  him  in  her  recent  conduct. 

"Sometimes — have  you  almost  hated  us  for  keeping 
those  two  secrets?" 

"I  don't  think  I  have  ever  hated  Vere." 

"But  me?" 

"Do  you  know  why  I  told  Vere  she  might  read  your 
books?" 

41  651 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  thought  they  might  make  her  feel  differ- 
ently towards  you." 

"Less — less  kindly?" 

"Yes." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  but  he  felt — he  did  not  know 
why — that  it  had  cost  her  very  much  to  say  what  she 
had  said. 

"You  wanted  Vere  to  think  badly  of  me!" 

He  was  honoring  her  for  the  moral  courage  which  en- 
abled her  to  tell  him.  Yet  he  felt  as  if  she  had  struck 
him.  And  so  absolutely  was  he  accustomed  to  delicate 
tenderness,  and  the  most  thoughtful,  anxious  kindness 
from  her,  that  he  suffered  acutely  and  from  a  double 
distress.  The  thing  itself  was  cruel  and  hurt  him.  But 
that  Hermione  had  done  it  hurt  him  far  more.  He 
could  hardly  believe  it.  That  by  any  road  she  could 
travel  to  such  an  action  seemed  incredible  to  him.  He 
stood,  realizing  it.  And  the  bitter  sharpness  of  his 
suffering  made  him  understand  something.  In  all  its 
fulness  he  understood  what  Hermione 's  tenderness  had 
been  in  his  life  for  many,  many  years.  And  then — his 
mind  seemed  to  take  another  step.  "Why  does  a  wom- 
an do  such  a  thing  as  this?"  he  asked  himself.  "Why 
does  such  a  woman  as  Hermione  do  such  a  thing?" 
And  he  knew  what  her  suffering  must  have  been,  and 
how  her  heart  must  have  been  storm-tossed,  before  it 
was  driven  to  succumb  to  such  an  impulse. 

And  he  came  quite  close  to  her.  And  he  felt  a  strange, 
sudden  nearness  to  her  that  was  no  nearness  of  body. 

"Hermione,"  he  said,  "I  could  never  judge  your  char- 
acter by  that  action.  Don't — don't  judge  mine  by  any 
cruelty  of  which  I  have  been  guilty  during  this  summer. 
You  have  told  me  something  that  it  was  very  difficult 
for  you  to  tell.  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  And  it 
is— it  is  not  easy  to  tell." 

652 


"Tell  it  me." 

He  looked  at  her.  He  was  now  quite  close  to  her, 
and  could  see  the  outline  of  her  face  but  not  the  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes. 

"My  interest  in  Vere  increased.  I  believed  it  to  be 
an  interest  aroused  in  me  by  the  discovery  of  this  talent 
in  her.  I  believed  the  new  fondness  I  felt  for  her  to  be 
a  very  natural  fondness,  caused  by  her  charming  con- 
fidence in  me.  Our  little  secret  drew  us  together.  And 
I  understand  now,  Hermione,  that  it  seemed  to  set  you 
apart  from  us.  I  believe  I  understand  all  now,  all  the 
circumstances  that  have  seemed  strange  to  me  this 
summer.  I  wanted  Vere's  talent  to  develop  naturally, 
unhindered,  unaffected — I  thought  it  was  merely  that 
— and  I  became  exigent,  I  even  became  jealous  of  all 
outside  interference.  On  the  night  we  dined  at  Frisio's 
I  felt  strongly  irritated  at  Panacci's  interest  in  Vere. 
And  there  were  other  moments — 

He  looked  at  her  again.  She  stood  perfectly  still. 
Her  head  was  slightly  bent  and  she  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing at  the  ground. 

"And  then  came  the  night  of  the  Carmine.  Her- 
mione, after  you  and  Vere  had  gone  to  bed  Panacci  and 
I  had  a  quarrel.  He  attacked  me  violently.  He  told 
me — he  told  me  that  I  was  in  love  with  Vere,  and  that 
you,  and  even — even  that  Gaspare  knew  it.  At  the 
moment  I  think  I  laughed  at  him.  I  thought  his  ac- 
cusation ridiculous.  But  when  he  had  gone — and  after- 
wards— I  examined  myself.  I  tried  to  know  myself.  I 
spent  hours  in  self-examination,  cruel  self-examination. 
I  did  not  spare  myself.  Believe  that,  Hermione!  Be- 
lieve that!" 

"I  do  believe  it." 

"And  at  the  end  I  knew  that  it  was  not  true.  I  was 
not,  I  had  never  been  in  love  with  Vere.  When  I 
thought  of  Vere  and  myself  in  such  a  relation  my  spirit 

653 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

recoiled.  Such  a  thing  seemed  to  me  monstrous.  But 
though  I  knew  that  was  not  true,  I  knew  also  that  I 
had  been  jealous  of  Vere,  unjust  to  others  because  of 
Vere.  I  had  been,  perhaps,  foolish,  undignified.  Perhaps 
— perhaps — for  how  can  we  be  quite  sure  of  ourselves, 
Hermione?  how  can  we  be  certain  of  our  own  natures, 
our  own  conduct? — perhaps,  if  Panacci's  coarse  brutal- 
ity had  not  waked  up  my  whole  being,  I  might  have 
drifted  on  towards  an  affection  for  Vere  that,  in  a  man 
of  my  age,  would  have  been  absurd,  have  made  me 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  others.  I  scarcely  think  so. 
But  I  want  to  be  sincere.  I  would  rather  exaggerate 
than  minimize  my  own  shortcomings  to  you  to-night.  I 
scarcely  believe  it  ever  could  have  been  so.  But  Panacci 
said  it  was  so.  And  you — I  don't  know  what  you  have 
thought — " 

"What  I  have  thought  doesn't  matter  now." 

She  spoke  very  quietly,  but  not  with  bitterness.  She 
knew  Artois.  And  even  in  that  moment  of  emotion, 
and  of  a  sort  of  strange  exhaustion  following  upon 
emotion,  she  knew,  as  no  other  living  person  could  have 
known,  the  effort  it  must  have  cost  him  to  speak  as  he 
had  just  spoken. 

"That,  at  any  rate,  is  the  exact  truth." 

"I  know  it  is." 

"I  have  thought  myself  clear-sighted,  Hermione.  I 
have  studied  others.  Just  lately  I  have  been  forced  to 
study  myself.  It  is  as  if — it  seems  to  me  as  if  events 
had  conspired  against  my  own  crass  ignorance  of  my 
self,  as  if  a  resolve  had  been  come  to  by  the  power  that 
directs  our  destinies  that  I  should  know  myself.  I  wish 
I  dared  to  tell  you  more.  I  wish  to-night  I  dared  to 
tell  you  all  that  I  have  come  to  know.  But  I  dare  not, 
I  dare  not.  You  would  not  believe  me.  I  could  not 
even  expect  you  to  believe  me." 

He  stopped.     Perhaps  he  hoped  for  a  word  that  would 
654 


A    SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

deny  his  last  observation.  But  it  did  not  come  to  him 
And  he  hesitated  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  very  long 
time,  almost  an  eternity.  He  was  beset  by  indecision, 
by  an  extraordinary  deep  modesty  and  consciousness  of 
his  own  unworthiness  that  he  had  never  before  experi- 
enced, and  also  by  a  new  and  acute  consciousness  of 
the  splendor  of  Hermione's  nature,  of  the  power  of  her 
heart,  of  the  faithfulness  and  nobility  of  her  tempera- 
ment. 

"All  I  can  say,  Hermione" — he  at  length  went  on 
speaking,  and  in  his  voice  sounded  that  strange  modesty, 
a  modesty  that  made  his  voice  seem  to  her  almost  like 
a  voice  of  hesitating  youth — "all  that  I  dare  to  say  to- 
night is  this.  I  told  you  just  now  that  we 'all  have  our 
different  ways  of  loving.  You  have  loved  in  your  way. 
You  have  loved  Delarey  as  your  husband.  And  you 
have  loved  me  as  your  friend.  Delarey,  as  your  hus- 
band, betrayed  you.  Only  to-day  you  know  it.  I,  as 
your  friend — have  I  ever  betrayed  you  ?  Do  you  believe 
— even  now  when  you  are  ready  to  believe  very  much  of 
evil — do  you  really  believe  that  as  a  friend  I  could  ever 
betray  you?" 

He  moved,  stood  in  front  of  her,  lifted  his  hands  and 
laid  them  on  her  shoulders. 

"Do  you  believe  that?" 

"No." 

"You  have  loved  us  in  your  way.  He  is  dead.  But 
I  am  here  to  love  you  always  in  my  way.  Perhaps  my 
way  seems  to  you  such  a  poor  way — it  must,  it  must — 
that  it  is  hardly  worth  anything  at  all.  But  perhaps, 
now  that  I  know  so  much  of  myself — and  of  you" — 
there  was  a  slight  break  in  his  voice — "and  of  you,  I 
shall  be  able  to  find  a  different,  a  better  way.  I  don't 
know.  To-night  I  doubt  myself.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  so 
unworthy.  But  I  may — I  may  be  able  to  find  a  better 
way  of  loving  you." 

655 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Quite  unconsciously  his  two  hands,  which  still  rested 
upon  her  shoulders,  began  to  lean  heavily  upon  them, 
to  press  them,  to  grip  them  till  she  suffered  a  physical 
discomfort  that  almost  amounted  to  pain. 

"I  shall  seek  a  better  way — I  shall  seek  it.  And  the 
only  thing  I  ask  you  to-night  is — that  ^ou  will  not  for- 
bid me  to  seek  it." 

The  pressure  of  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  was  be- 
coming almost  unbearable.  But  she  bore  it.  She  bore 
it  for  she  loved  it.  Perhaps  that  night  no  words  could 
have  quite  convinced  her  of  his  desperate  honesty  of 
soul  in  that  moment,  perhaps  no  sound  of  his  voice 
could  have  quite  convinced  her.  But  the  unconsciously 
cruel  pressure  of  his  hands  upon  her  convinced  her  ab- 
solutely. She  felt  as  if  it  was  his  soul — the  truth  of  his 
soul — which  was  grasping  her — which  was  closing  upon 
her.  And  she  felt  that  only  a  thing  that  needed  could 
grasp,  could  close  like  that. 

And  even  in  the  midst  of  her  chaos  of  misery  and 
doubt  she  felt,  she  knew,  that  it  was  herself  that  was 
needed. 

"I  will  not  forbid  you  to  seek  it,"  she  said. 

He  sighed  deeply.  His  hands  dropped  down  from 
her.  They  stood  for  a  moment  quite  still.  Then  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"You  took  the  fattura  della  morte?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "It  was  in — in  her  room  at 
Mergellina  to-day." 

"Have  you  got  it  still?" 

"Yes." 

She  held  out  her  right  hand.  He  took  the  death- 
charm  from  her. 

"She  made  it— the  woman  who  wronged  you  made  it 
to  bring  death  into  the  Casa  del  Mare." 

"Not  to  me?" 

"No,  to  Peppina.  Has  it  not  brought  another  death? 
656 


A   SPIRIT    IN    PRISON 

or,  at  least,  does  it  not  typify  another  death  to-night, 
the  death  of  a  great  lie  ?  I  think  it  does.  I  look  upon 
it  as  a  symbol.  But — but — ?" 

He  looked  at  her.  He  was  at  the  huge  doorway  of 
the  palace.  The  sea  murmured  below  him.  Hermione 
understood  and  bent  her  head. 

Then  Artois  threw  the  death-charm  far  away  into  the 
sea. 

"Let  me  take  you  to  the  boat.  Let  me  take  you 
back  to  the  island." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  But  when  he  moved  she 
followed  him,  till  they  came  to  the  rocks  and  saw  float- 
ing on  the  dim  water  the  two  white  boats. 

"Gaspare!" 

"Vengo!" 

That  cry — what  did  it  recall  to  Hermione  ?  Gaspare's 
cry  from  the  inlet  beneath  the  Isle  of  the  Sirens  when 
he  was  bringing  the  body  of  Maurice  from  the  sea.  As 
she  had  trembled  then,  she  began  to  tremble  now.  She 
felt  exhausted,  that  she  could  bear  no  more,  that  she 
must  rest,  be  guarded,  cared  for,  protected,  loved.  The 
boat  touched  shore.  Gaspare  leaped  out.  He  cast  an 
eager,  fiery  look  of  scrutiny  on  his  Padrona.  She  re- 
turned it.  Then,  suddenly,  he  seized  her  hand,  bent 
down  and  kissed  it. 

She  trembled  more.  He  lifted  his  head,  stared  at  her 
again.  Then  he  took  her  up  in  his  strong  arms,  as  if 
she  were  a  child,  and  carried  her  gently  and  carefully 
to  the  stern  of  the  boat. 

"Lei  si  riposi!"  he  whispered,  as  he  set  her  down. 

She  shut  her  eyes,  leaning  back  against  the  seat.  She 
heard  Artois  get  in,  the  boat  pushed  off,  the  plash  of 
the  oars.  But  she  did  not  open  her  eyes,  until  presently 
an  instinct  told  her  there  was  something  she  must  see. 
Then  she  looked. 

The  boat  was  passing  under  the  blessing  hand  of  San 

657 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

Francesco,  under  the  light  of  the  Saint,  which  was  burn- 
ing calmly  and  brightly. 

Hermione  moved.  She  bent  down  to  the  water,  the 
acqua  benedetta.  She  sprinkled  it  over  the  boat  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  When  they  reached  the 
island  Artois  got  out.  As  she  came  on  shore  he  said  to 
her : 

"Hermione,  I  left  the — the  two  children  together  in 
the  garden.  Do  you  think — will  you  go  to  them  for  a 
moment?  Or—" 

"I  will  go,"  she  answered. 

She  was  no  longer  trembling.  She  followed  him  up 
the  steps,  walking  slowly  but  firmly.  They  came  to  the 
house  door.  Gaspare  had  kept  close  behind  them.  At 
the  door  Artois  stopped.  He  felt  as  if  to-night  he  ought 
to  go  no  farther. 

Hermione  looked  at  him  and  passed  into  the  house. 
Gaspare,  seeing  that  Artois  did  not  follow  her,  hesitated, 
but  Artois  said  to  him: 

"Go,  Gaspare,  go  with  your  Padrona." 

Then  Gaspare  went  in,  down  the  passage,  and  out  to 
the  terrace. 

Hermione  was  standing  there. 

"Do  you  think  they  are  in  the  garden,  Gaspare?"  she 
said. 

"SI,  Signora.     Listen!     I  can  hear  them!" 

He  held  up  his  hand.  Not  far  away  there  was  a  sound 
of  voices  speaking  together. 

"Shall  I  go  and  tell  them,  Signora?" 

After  a  moment  Hermione  said: 

"Yes,  Gaspare — go  and  tell  them." 

He  went  away,  and  she  waited,  leaning  on  the  balus- 
trade and  looking  down  to  the  dim  sea,  from  which  only 
the  night  before  Ruffo's  voice  had  floated  up  to  her, 
singing  the  song  of  Mergellina.  Only  the  night  before! 
And  it  seemed  to  her  centuries  ago. 

658 


"Madre!" 

Vere  spoke  to  her.  Vere  was  beside  her.  But  she 
gazed  beyond  her  child  to  Ruffo,  who  stood  with  his  cap 
in  his  hand  and  his  eyes,  full  of  gentleness,  looking  at 
her  for  recognition. 

"Ruffo!"  she  said. 

Vere  moved  to  let  Ruffo  pass.  He  came  up  and  stood 
before  Hermione. 

"Ruffo!"  she  said  again. 

It  seemed  that  she  was  going  to  say  more.  They 
waited  for  her  to  say  something  more.  But  she  did  not 
speak.  She  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment  looking  at 
the  boy.  Then  she  put  one  hand  on  his  shoulder,  bent 
down  and  touched  his  forehead  with  her  lips. 

And  in  that  kiss  the  dead  man  was  forgiven. 


EPILOGUE 

ON  a  radiant  day  of  September  in  the  following  year, 
from  the  little  harbor  of  Mergellina  a  white  boat  with  a 
green  line  put  off.  It  was  rowed  by  Gaspare,  who  wore 
his  festa  suit,  and  it  contained  two  people,  a  man  and 
a  woman,  who  had  that  morning  been  quietly  mar- 
ried. 

Another  boat  preceded  theirs,  going  towards  the  isl- 
and, but  it  was  so  far  ahead  of  them  that  they  could 
only  see  it  as  a  moving  dot  upon  the  shining  sea, 
when  they  rounded  the  breakwater  and  set  their  course 
for  the  point  of  land  where  lies  the  Antico  Giusep- 
pone. 

Gaspare  rowed  standing  up,  with  his  back  towards 
Hermione  and  Artois  and  his  great  eyes  staring  steadily 
out  to  sea.  He  plied  the  oars  mechanically.  During 
the  first  few  minutes  of  the  voyage  to  the  island  his 
mind  was  far  away.  He  was  a  boy  in  Sicily  once  more, 
waiting  proudly  upon  his  first,  and  indeed  his  only, 
Padrona  in  the  Casa  del  Prete  on  Monte  Amato.  Then 
she  was  quite  alone.  He  could  see  her  sitting  at  even- 
ing upon  the  terrace  with  a  book  in  her  lap,  gazing  out 
across  the  ravine  and  the  olive-covered  mountain  slopes 
to  the  waters  that  kissed  the  shore  of  the  Sirens'  Isle. 
He  could  see  her,  when  night  fell,  going  slowly  up  the 
steps  into  the  lighted  cottage,  and  turning  on  its  thresh- 
old to  wish  him  "Buon  riposo." 

Then  there  was  an  interval — and  she  came  again.  He 
was  waiting  at  the  station  of  Cattaro.  Outside  stood 

660 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

the  little  train  of  donkeys,  decorated  with  flowers  un- 
der his  careful  supervision.  Upon  Monte  Amato,  in  the 
Casa  del  Prete,  everything  was  in  readiness  for  the  ar- 
rival of  the  Padrona— and  the  Padrone.  For  this  time 
his  Padrona  was  not  to  be  alone.  And  the  train  came 
in,  thundering  along  by  the  sea,  and  he  saw  a  brown, 
eager  face  looking  out  of  a  window — a  face  which  at 
once  had  seemed  familiar  to  him  almost  as  if  he  had 
always  known  it  in  Sicily. 

And  the  new  and  wonderful  period  of  his  boy's  life 
began. 

But  it  passed,  and  in  the  early  morning  he  stood  in 
the  corner  of  the  Campo  Santo  where  Protestants  were 
buried,  and  threw  flowers  from  his  father's  terreno  into 
an  open  grave. 

And  once  more  his  Padrona  was  alone. 

Far  away  from  Sicily,  from  his  "Paese,"  among  the 
great  woods  of  the  Abetone  he  received  for  the  first  time 
into  his  untutored  arms  his  Padroncina.  His  Padrone 
was  gone  from  him  forever.  But  once  more,  as  he  would 
have  expressed  it  to  a  Sicilian  comrade,  they  were  "in 
three."  And  still  another  period  began. 

And  now  that  period  was  ended. 

As  Gaspare  rowed  slowly  011  towards  the  island,  in 
his  simple  and  yet  shrewd  way  he  was  pondering  on 
life,  on  its  irresistible  movement,  on  its  changes,  its 
alternations  of  grief  and  joy,  loneliness  and  companion- 
ship. He  was  silently  reviewing  the  combined  fates  of 
his  Padrona  and  himself. 

Behind  him  for  a  long  while  there  was  silence.  But 
when  the  boat  was  abreast  of  the  sloping  gardens  of 
Posilipo  Artois  spoke  at  last. 

"Hermione!"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Do  you  remember  that  evening  when  I  met  you  on 
the  sea?" 

661 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

"After  I  had  been  to  Frisio's?     Yes,  I  remember  it." 

"You  had  been  reading  what  I  wrote  in  the  wonder- 
ful book." 

"And  I  was  wondering  why  you  had  written  it." 

"I  had  no  special  reason.  I  thought  of  that  say- 
ing. I  had  to  write  something,  so  I  wrote  that.  I  won- 
der—  I  wonder  now  why  long  ago  my  conscience  did 
not  tell  me  plainly  something.  I  wonder  it  did  not 
tell  me  plainly  what  you  were  in  my  life,  all  you 
were." 

"Have  I — have  I  really  been  much?" 

' '  I  never  knew  how  much  till  I  thought  of  you  per- 
manently changed  towards  me,  till  I  thought  of  you 
living,  but  with  your  affection  permanently  withdrawn 
from  me.  That  night — you  know — ?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"At  first  I  was  not  sure — I  was  afraid  for  a  moment 
about  you.  Vcre  and  I  were  afraid,  when  your  room 
was  dark  and  we  heard  nothing.  But  even  then  I  did 
not  fully  understand  how  much  I  needed  you.  I  only 
understood  that  in  the  Palace  of  the  Spirits,  when — 
when  you  hated  me — " 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  hated  you." 

"Hatred,  you  know,  is  the  other  side  of  love." 

"Then  perhaps  I  did.     Yes— I  did." 

"How  long  my  conscience  was  inactive,  was  useless 
to  me!  It  needed  a  lesson,  a  terrible  lesson.  It  needed 
a  cruel  blow  to  rouse  it." 

"And  mine!"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

"We  shall  make  many  mistakes,  both  of  us,"  he  said. 
"But  I  think,  after  that  night,  we  can  never  for  very 
long  misunderstand  each  other.  For  that  night  we 
were  sincere." 

"Let  us  always  be  sincere." 

"Sincerity  is  the  rock  on  which  one  should  build  the 
house  of  life." 

662 


A   SPIRIT   IN    PRISON 

'Let  us — you  and  I — let  us  build  upon  it  our  palace 
of  the  spirits." 

Then  they  were  silent  again.  They  were  silent  until 
the  boat  passed  the  point,  until  in  the  distance  the  isl- 
ana  appeared,  even  until  the  prow  of  the  boat  grated 
against  the  rock  beneath  the  window  of  the  Casa  del 
Mare. 

As  Hermione  got  out  Gaspare  bent  to  kiss  her  hand. 

"Benedicite!"  he  murmured. 

And,  as  she  pressed  his  hand  with  both  of  hers,  she 
answered: 

"Benedicite!" 

That  night,  not  very  late,  but  when  darkness  had 
fallen  over  the  sea,  Hermione  said  to  Vere: 

"I  am  going  out  for  a  little,  Vere." 

"Yes,  Madre." 

The  child  put  her  arms  round  her  mother  and  kissed 
her.  Hermione  tenderly  returned  the  kiss,  looked  at 
Artois,  and  went  out. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  brow  of  the  island,  and  stood 
still  for  a  while,  drinking  in  the  soft  wind  that  blew  to 
her  from  Ischia.  Then  she  descended  to  the  bridge  and 
looked  down  into  the  Pool  of  San  Francesco. 

The  Saint's  light  was  burning  steadily.  She  watched 
it  for  a  moment,  and  while  she  watched  it  she  presently 
heard  beneath  her  a  boy's  voice  singing  softly  the  song 
of  Merge llina: 

"  Oh,   dolce  luna  bianca  de  1*  estate 

Mi  fugge  il  sonno  accanto  a  la  marina; 
Mi  destan  le  dolcissime  serate, 

Gli  occhi  di  Rosa  e  il  mar  di  Mergellina." 

The  voice  died  away.  There  was  a  moment  of  si- 
lence. 

663 


A  SPIRIT   IN   PRISON 

She  clasped  the  rail  with  her  hands;  she  leaned 
over  the  Pool. 

"Buona  notte,  Ruffino!"  she  said,  softly. 
And  the  voice  from  the  sea  answered  her: 
"Buona  notte,  Signora.  Buona  notte  e  buon  ripe-*;  " 


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